


Home is Where the Heart Is (My Heart is You)

by ModernArt2012



Series: You remind me of (Home) and other assorted works [4]
Category: Naruto
Genre: Also what is a chapter count anways, And is Emotionally Constipated, Basically this is a WIP, Family, Fluff, House building, I withhold the right to change ratings/tags/warnings as appropriate, Lots fo Worldbuilding, M/M, Madara has the Feels, Madara is an Uchiha, Magic AU, More Drama than Necessary, More Emotional Constipation than Healthy, Pining, Rating May Change, Sorry (not sorry), Tags May Change, They only have one Setting, Tobirama is Doing Things, WHoops it might go up a lottle, Warnings May Change, houses, modern with magic, scenes in italics are memories, what do you expect
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-13
Updated: 2018-10-29
Packaged: 2019-03-30 15:43:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 39,373
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13954791
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ModernArt2012/pseuds/ModernArt2012
Summary: The one where Tobirama goes off to rip holes in the Veil, and Madara deals. Poorly and in the most Extra Dramatic Uchiha Fashion he can Possibly Achieve.A fic primarily about pining and Madara doing it badly. After 5 years of dating. (And then the consequences thereof.)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The latest installment in the series. It's... slow goings. Cross posted on tumblr
> 
>  
> 
> New style, significantly longer than usual, please let me know what you think! The aim was to give a retrospective account of the relationship in the throes of pining and being apart, but also progressing this relationship from the very beginning to a point where it's comfortable and the norm for both of them. And then the bit that comes next.
> 
> Any scene fully in italics is a flashback/memory.

It starts as an subtle prickle in the back of Madara’s brain, lurks beneath the surface shadowy and indistinct, something that ghosts by before he can understand it and hits him in the solar plexus when he least expects it and leaves him dazed in its wake. It's a ‘Tobirama’ feeling if Madara has ever had one, bone deep and aching. He doesn't mention it to anyone; not Hashirama because he doesn't want to see the horrified/constipated look Hashirama gets when Madara talks about Tobirama and _feelings_ , not Kagami or Hikaku who sing childish songs about trees and kissing or sigh in resignation (respectively), not Mito who smirks knowingly and then forces Madara to make dinner for her, not Tobirama who has taken to carding his fingers through Madara’s long hair and humming snatches of song that Madara can’t place, doesn’t know how to interpret beyond the unmistakable, unshakable fondness Tobirama’s voice is imbued with. Five years, technically more, and somehow Madara has lost his entire ability to read Tobirama, speak the tongues that make up Tobirama and everything he says and doesn’t, translate the riddles of his mood and motives, seemingly overnight. It's like he's been transported twenty years into the past, tongue tied and fumbling around his crush, only a trillion times worse because this is _Tobirama_ and not some fluffy, fluttery high school girl.

 

His brain itches until it’s on fire, chasing this elusive idea around and around and around, twists and turns and rotates up down sideways backtracks, picks up bits and pieces of clues and bread crumbs that it leaves sporadically through his thoughts. The way it trails after him like a ribbon and catches in the corners, floods his thoughts and swaddles him in its grasp. Over days, weeks, it grows, consuming, a feeling that everything isn’t quite right, that _something_ is ... missing, lacking, for want of a better word. There are full afternoons Madara _yearns_ and doesn’t understand why, only knows he ends up as the willing personal space heater for Tobirama as he reads papers late into the night on the couch, in their bed, twined like branches of ivy, and that is still not _enough._ His father, married nearly 50 years, laughs himself sick when he comes home for advice in the guise of catching up over lunch. Madara would ask Mito, but he doesn’t feel like being judged by his best friend’s wife and a genius twenty-something-year old home from genius doctoring or conquering the field of medicine via excessive tenacity and sheer genius or whatever it is that Tsunade does. Tsunade seems to think he’d benefit from professional intervention, but admittedly, she had qualified that about his chronic headaches and migraines, and not his personality defects. Some darling god-daughter she is, though Madara is sure she deals with enough difficult patients on a daily basis to have used up her sympathy for anyone moderately capable. At least Nawaki, if he wasn’t currently busy touring with the rest of his band, would have the decency to pretend that he’s sympathetic to his godfather’s plight, for all that Nawaki’s an idol and thinks every problem can be solved by sparkling hard enough or by judicious application of strawberry parfait.

 

Madara figures it out in the middle of the night, knowing by rote the sleep-even breathing of the man he’s curled around and his ice pine scent, the low creak of his apartment cooing over them, crooning low and sweet like she’s the background orchestra to a romantic movie and her inhabitants are the lead roles. _Ah,_ Madara thinks, as all the pieces come together in his head, as the jangle of confusion grows louder yet more manageable, and hooks his chin over Tobirama’s shoulder to curl closer. It’s cold outside, chill falling fast, but he knows he runs hot in comparison to Tobirama, that he can choose the way their bodies tetris together and ensure he wakes up able to feel his limbs even if it means freezing feet pressed to his calves, and it’s more instinct than not to slip his arms around Tobirama and match his breathing to Tobirama’s and let it carry him back out to sleep. He’ll deal with the meaning and repercussions in the morning. For now he only wants to lie here and re-familiarize himself with the slimness of Tobirama’s waist and the smell of Tobirama’s shampoo.

 

Only he doesn’t get to any introspection about his realization, the brunt of it lost to the deep of night, because they both oversleep and have to flee out the door without even so much as a quick peck goodbye. Madara leaves home bereft, robbed, and wearing mismatched socks which does absolutely nothing to help with his mood; that itself takes a turn for the worse upon realizing there's a veritable mountain of paperwork waiting for him and his phone ringing off the hook with demands and complaints. That everyone in the office gives him a wide berth means absolutely nothing; that Izuna sticks his head in, blanches, and flees to the underbelly of the city for a week means everything. He only catches himself 5 minutes into giving IA representatives the hairy eyeball. He’s on the fast track to Chief of Police and can’t afford to not play politics, not quite yet, so calling out IA on their obvious corruption and rule flouting will have to wait. He appeases himself by siccing Konan on subtly digging into Danzo anyways; there’s no such thing as too prepared for house cleaning.

 

He doesn't know how to frame the words to capture even an impression of this, that this isn't so small as a discovery of feelings or sudden heart wrenching, madness inducing inspiration or any other words like in Hashi’s trashy formulaic romances Hashi deludedly thinks no one knows he reads. It's something deeper, something that has taken time to build; to lay out the rocks to define the fire pit, carefully place the tinder and build up the kindling and then proper dry wood above that, using the hearth board and to build up friction the long hard way instead of flint and tinder to spark up the flame, and then tending the fire carefully, not too much not too little just right until it’s burning steady and even and without disturbance. It's a bad metaphor, but it's the only one Madara has, one screaming in the cracks and crevices of his heart, buried deep in the muscle; one he wishes he could release somewhere so that the anxious, restless, stir-craziness leaves him and that he can cocoon himself in the rest and let it sink in through his skin, assimilate with his DNA until they are at peace.

 

Because, Fire God’s Flame, how he _wants._ If Madara ever had a metric for wanting, this has destroyed it completely. He’s pretty sure Tobirama suspects _something_ , probably drugs if Madara is lucky, but doesn’t complain at the plethora of cuddling and kissing and touching and stumbling back to their bed for various ... reasons. Luxuriates in it all, really, takes and takes and takes as if it’s his due without questioning it, like this ... _worship_ is natural and normal, and for that Madara’s heart swells four sizes too big and chokes him. Regularly. It’s not to be borne, Four forsake it. It’s giving the apartment _ideas_ , and they both know how the last time a house took interest in their relationship turned out.

 

Since he’s unlucky enough to have to regularly interact with Kawarama and Itama - by dint of them being friends with Izuna due to botched Shovel Talk and thus having copies of his office keys - he knows he’s “brooding like a Romantic Hero - no Madara, that’s not a good thing, Heathcliff isn’t a role model”, (thanks Itama) - and that sooner or later something’s going to give. Madara hopes it’s his heart, because at least he can handle his heart exploding with some dignity and grace. The other options - the other options don’t have such positive outcomes, and Madara would gladly do a thousand sun sastras - meditative circle walking included! - in order for those other outcomes to not occur.

 

Which means, Madara ought to schedule time to go through the old Clan shrine cum storage shed down by the Nanaka River for guidance and poke around in vain hope some distant ancestor has _useful_ advice - a long shot - and pray to the the Fire God that someone’s recently been by to dust. Plus he can’t bemoan his very existence at his apartment anymore without unduly upsetting her and concerning everyone in his social circle, so new courses of action must be sought. His mother is overjoyed, his father is _still_ laughing himself sick - Fire God’s flaming _balls_ , he nearly asphyxiated last time - and Izuna is still buried in the underground criminal element and is being no help whatsoever. Because Madara _really_ enjoys 5 minutes of maniacal laughter and gunfire in his voicemail box, Izuna.

 

He honestly doesn’t think anyone’s had it this bad since that distant ancestor who built the sprawling family estate on the slopes of an active volcano. Which, come to think of it, explains some things, but also raises its own (disturbing) questions, ones that _no living being_  is qualified to even begin to contemplate. Madara resolves not to ask. Ever.

 

The exact nature of his predicament is still percolating in his brain when Tobirama comes back home with a tense furrow between his eyebrows and his lips pressed flat in annoyance, long overdue to be home for a half-day at the office. Madara knows that face like he knows the back of his hand, and it doesn’t bode well. He forgoes letting Tobirama take off his shoes and hang up his coat, instead reels him in and kisses him softly. There’s a moment of melting, sinking, chasing more, and he marks it mentally. This is at least a level 7 then, and it’s going to take a long shower and tea to soothe. It’s the work of a moment to encourage Tobirama back and into their stupidly spacious shower, peeling out of their clothes like so many wrappers on candy.

 

One satisfactory shower later and they’re curled up in the sunspot Madara has purposefully made sure to situate the long sectional in, warm mugs of tea at the ready. Or rather, Tobirama has his, some infernal black mix with chamomile and lavender and mint that had three separate steep times and needed a 3:2:1 ratio to even taste remotely decent. Madara is currently (unsuccessfully!) trying to lie to himself that this isn’t cuddling, and trying to smother himself in fluffy, soft smoke white hair while ignoring the mint tea rapidly cooling on the coffee table.

 

“Mada,” Tobirama hums thoughtfully, trailing off in a low sigh as Madara noses into the spot behind Tobirama’s ear, the one that always gets that reaction and melts the remaining stress from Tobirama’s shoulders. He’s mindful of the fact he is two seconds from Interested, and that it is not at all useful when he needs to turn the roast in the oven in 30 minutes. Twelve Hells, he’s _old_ , he’s not supposed to have the sex drive or refractory period of a teenager. “Madara.” Tobirama tries again, more firmly, the tone Madara knows to interpret as, ‘Leave off. Now’. He disengages, less reluctance and more security in the knowledge not now did not mean not later.

 

After a lengthy pause, Tobirama continues, set of his spine still tense and unforgiving. “There’s been an update.”

 

Just like that, it’s like all the languid warmth circling through his body has been sucked from his bones. Icy water trickles down his spine and Madara freezes. There’s only a few things there could possibly be an update on, and only one would put a trench between Tobirama’s eyes and such stiffness in his muscles, require Tobirama’s ‘business neutral’ tone of voice when it is normally reserved for the most asinine of encounters. His throat is so much chalk and dust, and takes a moment to clear and speak in a voice that isn’t a croak, “Those pompous military types finally get off their collective ass then?” There, safely neutral and not a collection of curses that would garner him the Eyebrow of Judgement and Doom.

 

Tobirama huffs a laugh, weary beyond just physical but amused nonetheless. “We should only be so lucky. No, some accountant probably pointed out their grant has already been allocated and been re-allocated for 5 years now and they still haven't greenlit active human testing, though we know it works and how to use it. Which, since active testing is required for federal approval of use, and costs less than renewing the grant yearly so they continue to have proprietary rights to my research....” Tobirama trails off suggestively, as if encompassing the general idiocy of military higher ups with a pointed sip of tea. The pleased almost-purr Tobirama exudes at the first sip is gratifying to the proto-sensible-human part of Madara’s brain.

 

Madara grumbles, “Any idiot with half a brain could've told them that, Fire God’s eternal _flame_ .” It's worth feeling Tobirama chuckle under his breath again, even as his stomach sinks. Of all the times for bureaucracy to figure out how to run, and _military_ bureaucracy at that. He wonders if it’s worth the raised eyebrow to free a hand to massage Tobirama’s scalp, if Tobirama would go boneless with pleasure even as he keeps talking. Then Madara catches himself, because _honestly_ he’s got self-control and this isn’t the time to indulge his recently discovered touch starvation - touch kink? Does it even count as a kink? - like he’s trying to make up for lost time. He was hugged as a child, often, even if you didn’t include the way he and Izuna would cuddle up with one another for naps, Madara swears! There’s absolutely no reason to be this stupidly needy, like he _needs_ to bury himself inside Tobirama, in the very fabric of his being, in between the bonds of the atoms of his body and never come out. He really needs to get this under control since it’s gotten completely and wildly out of hand. Fire God’s _flaming balls_ , this is stalker levels of crazy, except Madara knows he’s not a stalker - maybe more crazy fan girl insane, like the ones who break into houses and sincerely believe that the idol is their soulmate and the father of their (possibly nonexistent) unborn child? Either way it’s not a flattering comparison....

 

“Mhmmm,” Tobirama leans back a little more, his solid weight soothing the ache in Madara’s chest just as much as the coo of delight from their apartment, like this is her favorite ship being fluffy and cutely romantic on that murder drama Tobirama watches. “We’re being sent out to a small outpost in the forest; nothing much but a small village, lab, and dense trees so it’ll be easy to hide any evidence of our research from foreign eyes.” Madara weighs that in his head, the benefit of having the research hidden in an elusive place where no enterprising government could see and possibly hijack, versus the lack of consistent external contact, the pro of finally having the military off Tobirama’s tax exemptions versus the con of possibly extremely dangerous research testing. It's close, almost too close to call.

 

“Any nearby hospitals?” Because that’s the safe thing to do, imply that someone’s going to need medical attention. Well, safer than forbidding Tobirama from going due to gut feeling that it’s a bad idea to go- impulse the first, and sure to devolve into an argument and Tobirama or Madara ending up at Hashirama’s or Izuna’s (respectively) overnight - or kissing him into forgetting everything, which wouldn’t go over well due to previous lack of consent and because that’s legally sexual assault and Madara might be terrible but he’s not that far gone - impulse the second. Cooking aggressively is a no go by way of having already been completed - impulse the third. Silently, Madara grouses at his past self for being overly productive; he’s got nothing to do other than to stay here and cuddle.

 

“One very good one not even a 5 minute drive away according to Tsunade. Just in case we have another emergency stop via face meeting tree trunk 100 feet above the ground.” They both chuckle quietly at that - it had taken Tobirama raising a stern eyebrow at his old mentee in the Political Science department to have that particular misadventure cleaned up, though Kagami ended up getting an earful in the process. They had been a new _they_ then - first date new - and Madara sometimes likes to think about how anyone else wouldn’t have been able to put up with Kagami and his... _Kagami_ -ness with so much poise. It might just have been desensitization from long term exposure, but still, Tobirama didn’t go fleeing into the God’s Graveyard deep in the mountains and that speaks well to his ability to handle Uchiha craziness. Madara smothers that thought where it stands, now is not the time.

 

Laughter does nothing for the heavy cement boa constrictor doing its best to suffocate Madara’s heart, though. He lets the quiet ruminate, then asks, “How long?” Torture either way, but better to know, even though this isn’t the first time or the second or even the tenth Tobirama has had to go away for a time.

 

The answer is severe in its conciseness, but reluctantly given from the beats laying between it and the query. “A year, at most.” Madara buries that answer down down down under the sudden cacophony of denial-sadness, swallows down his want to go with Tobirama, and breathes even though it feels like drowning.

 

* * *

  


Madara doesn’t know what Tsunade thinks she’ll find as she watches him carefully pack the final bag with Tobirama’s clothes and toiletries. Tobirama had been called away to argue with some military transport fellow about what instruments need to be sent to the laboratory, strident and withering in his replies to the less than brilliant person on the other end of his phone. Given that Tobirama had continually been interrupted in packing for the last week, Madara figured he could at least finish this much. The items were prepared, after all, and just needed to be folded correctly and put into the luggage. Something even little baby Satsuki could manage, though she probably doesn't count much since her Blessing is, as far as anyone can tell, _folding clothes_. If Madara is slightly jealous of a toddler’s Blessing, then it’s understandable - his boyfriend is, somehow, a clotheshorse, even if all of the clothes are of plain and unassuming colors and general classic cuts and trends.

 

If Madara tucks in nonessentials - like the small sachets of rowan and holly and fir for protection and endurance between the layers of his clothing, cedar incense from the oldest Fire _mandir_ in the elemental nations with the mini chalice for the Moonrise Ceremonies, homemade eucalyptus mint willow bark balm for Tobirama’s stress headaches in his toiletries bag- then only Tsunade could tell. But Madara doubted she would; Tsunade had sharp eyes like her father but a shrewd mind like her mother, and wouldn't say anything unless it was necessary. And it wasn't necessary, because Madara usually snuck this sort of thing into Tobirama’s stuff when he traveled, it is perfectly normal and a form of affection they both understood. Showing one cares through leaving items chosen with affection and thoughtfulness towards the recipient. Something like that. Probably.

 

Fuck it, he’s throwing in Tobirama’s favorite Mizu fisherman sweater too. It gets cold in all the main forests of Hi no Kuni, especially during the winter, and Madara won’t be able to send it along after if Tobirama needs it, since it’s a super secret military project and all that. Their apartment shifts, uneasy, flustered, and sends pleas of concern and confusion at Madara, as if Tobirama is going away forever rather than the relatively short span of time that is a year. Madara will have to re-explain in small ideas later. “Uncle Mada, stop fretting. Uncle Tobirama is perfectly capable of taking care of himself.”

 

Madara sighs heavily even as he refolds the thick bulk of the fisherman’s sweater trying to get it to lay flat. “I know he is - Fire God’s _balls_ , I’ve seen him at only ‘capable’ before.” Tsunade probably hears what he can’t bring himself to say out loud, that Tobirama, even at _only_ capable, is enough to face armies head on and win. And that however capable Tobirama is, it isn’t enough to override the ... _unease_ clogging up Madara’s guts. Tobirama, in Madara’s considerable experience, often tends to find himself in trouble - see the zombie assassins, that once, notably - and this time he’s hasn’t got Madara to help out if he gets himself into a bind. Any sane human would worry. Any sane, normal human who understood what Tobirama could achieve with a little ingenuity and thinking would worry.  

 

Tsunade is unimpressed. “And Uncle Tobirama doesn’t need _four_ extra sweaters. There’s probably a shop wherever it is he’s going, and you know he’ll just expense it to the military if he has to buy more of anything, even from online.” She yanks out three sweaters with little regard to Madara’s exacting luggage packing schema, and he has to scramble to keep the pile from falling over. It’s only a near miss and he levels a Master Death Glare at her on principle alone. She passes over the well worn black turtleneck Tobirama wears for comfort around their apartment and then the spare set of his glasses. “This and that fancy pashmina you bought at this end of the edge of the Gods’ Range.”

 

Their third anniversary gift, a fancy silver color that matched Tobirama’s hair in moonlight, that had been oh-so-lovely to peel off inch by glorious inch, the matching thigh-high socks delicate even as they wrapped around Madara and held him in place as Tobirama rode and teased him for hours. Madara, in a fit of piety, prays for the Water God’s mercy in desperate hope that that particular memory doesn’t show on his face, because Tsunade will figure it out and then Hashi and Mito will murder him for scarring their baby girl with his sex life. Sure, Tsunade is a fully grown adult and a doctor and probably knows about this sort of thing in more detail than anyone wants to admit, but Madara remembers the outcome of Dan Kato being introduced - he got to bring out his side arm and loom menacingly in the background while Hashirama talked diplomatically while promising homicide with his eyes and Tobirama leveled his best imperial gaze at the man as he sharpened a knife, he was an _eyewitness_ to the event - and he’d rather not have a similar reckoning, part two with himself in the hot seat.

 

“There, done.” Tsunade snaps the clasps on the massive bag closed with an air of finality and with no visible effort, then scoops up Tobirama’s laptop bag and the other two large luggage bags by the bedroom door. “Come on, we’ve got to get to the airport soon and Uncle Tobirama left specific instructions that neither you nor Orochimaru were to drive under any circumstances.” With nary a grunt of exertion, she lifts the bag over her shoulder and strolls out like she’s leaving for the hot springs and not lugging a years worth of clothing in three bags.

 

“Tobirama _teleports_ places, he does not get to dictate who travels how.” Madara knows he’s sputtering, but of the two of them, Tobirama is the one who drives like he’s signed up for a Formula One race no matter the weather or traffic conditions. There’s a good reason that there are permanent indents in the passenger “Oh, Sage!” handle of both of their personal vehicles that matches Madara’s hand precisely. There are only two results to Tobirama being in charge of getting them to a destination - either by vehicle or Teleportation - and one of them involves hanging on for dear life and popping anti-nausea pills like candy after.

 

Tsunade, beloved and caring god-daughter of his, snorts inelegantly. “And you only ever get places precisely when you mean to. Come along Oro-duckie.” Since when has he been sulking (skulking?) on their couch? Madara stares at the 5’8” of despair trailing after them like so much lanky baggage, then decides it’s not worth questioning. Madara folds himself into the passenger seat of Tsunade’s ancient machine of a car and prays for there to be enough police presence to deter Tsunade from speeding. Overmuch. Curse the Senju lineage and its need to get places _yesterday_ instead of at speed limit like sane humans. Maybe it was a curse? Did Madara need to invest in a Curse Breaker to look into this? His heart couldn’t handle repeated cardiac strain like this for much longer.

 

“Please cease and desist calling me ‘duckie’. It is puerile, demeaning, and offensive.” Orochimaru grouses as his seatbelt barely stops him from sliding across the back seats. Would it be bad form to subtly text Hizashi or Fugaku about the speeding Senju? Would him being implicated by being in the same car as someone caught speeding come back to haunt him? Could he even get to his phone without having it yanked out of his hand due to physics? And hadn’t Orochimaru used those same words to qualify Jiraiya to someone the other day?

 

Tsunade gamely ignores the comment and her godfather hanging on for dear life as she accelerates to make a swiftly changing light. “Hang on, we’re going through!” They go screeching through the light, careening into a left that literally has the vehicle bouncing across the pavement. Tsunade grins like she sees _absolutely nothing wrong_ with the situation, even though her back seat passenger lost the fight with physics and is plastered against the back right corner of the cab. “Oh, look, you’re not preemptively pining anymore, Uncle Madara.” Tsunade has no right to look so pleased with herself, _Fire God and all the Small Lords_.

 

He’d retort but opening his mouth seems like a bad idea. Also, he was _not_ pining and had not been pining. Pining would involve more ... wasting away in a dark corner of a mansion. The only people he knew with a house big enough to qualify as a mansion, or even had an appropriate corner to pine in were Hashi and Mito and Fire God knows that’s a bad idea and change. Konoha _alone_ would drive him spare before the pining even became a problem. Madara furiously thinks these things at Tsunade, in the vain hope she figured out the lost art of Telepathy recently.

 

The way she screeches through a (yellow!) stoplight says otherwise, but Madara had to give it a try. Four know the whole “genius” appellation is par for the course for the Senju, there was a non-negligible non-zero chance she’d done so. Or possibly fallen into cahoots with her little partners-in-crime and done it entirely by accident. Madara vacates that train of thought in favor of begging for the Water God’s mercy in earnest - they’re barreling well above the speed limit towards a Kaze roadblock and there is no way in the Twelve Hells Tsunade’s car can _fiiiiiiit_.

 

“I think I’ve lost years off my life.” He announces in lieu of nothing, interrupting perfectly good bickering from his goddaughter and her erstwhile accomplice. It’s not like he can hear much _over the sound of his heart in his throat_. Madara certainly hadn’t been the one to teach Tsunade to jank and slip and zip and weave through traffic like that, and once Madara figures out who the person who had was, Madara is going to sic a coffee-deprived Kagami on them. Letting stuff like this recklessness continue would only serve to petrify and terrorize the populace and cannot be allowed to continue. For public safety and Madara’s continued healthful living.

 

Orochimaru and Tsunade snort in unison, as if they find some great irony in this. “Uncle Madara, you know Uncle Tobirama and _Kagami.”_ Madara would appreciate not getting sassed by persons younger than him, especially since they also know the two individuals in question. It doesn’t matter, as Tsunade hauls screaming up to the heavily manned gates of a secluded private airfield. The military uniformed men at the gate check over Tsunade’s car while a man at the booth checks their ID’s. Eventually they’re waved through, and directed to head directly onto the tarmac.

 

A private jet is waiting, with uniforms hurriedly milling around like ants clambering around a queen ant. A caravan of black SUVs waits, loaded with boxes and crates that hit every one of Madara’s finely tuned police senses for illicit cargo, and he itches to flash his badge and rifle through them no matter the fact he’s got no authority over the military and would likely be laughed out of the airport for trying. The wind picks up as the engines kick into drive, whirling into a steady drone that whips frigid air through the crowd and scattering long-dead leaves like grains of sand.

 

The movement draws his eyes to the navy beacon stood still in the hive of forest green and black. Tobirama’s heavy navy greatcoat barely moves under the barrage of wind, but his hair ruffles and that is invitation as much as the way Tobirama turns away from the man he has been arguing with to send a small smile Madara’s way. It’s a foregone conclusion that Madara will take it, Tsunade and Orochimaru have a legion of physically fit military types to abuse into bussing the luggage onto the plane and won’t have to stare Madara into doing the task.

 

“You came.” A statement, innocuous and bland on the surface. It’s always disorienting whenever Tobirama says things like that, tinted in wonderous astonishment; a bitter reminder that Hashi isn’t here or Kawarama or Itama, or Tobirama’s mother even (Four bless her, her health hasn’t been good in years, though), and that however much the Senju talk about being a close family, it’s mostly just that, _talk_ . Madara instead reaches out and tucks his burgundy scarf into the gap between Tobirama’s coat collar and neck, already leaking _steady-fire-warm_ into the wool fibers, to be trapped and trickle out like a personal heater. Fire God _knows_ airplanes fail to have any temperature setting beyond cold. The color is a shade or two darker than Tobirama’s mastery tattoos, but the effect is breathtaking. Modelesque and striking in all the best and worst ways. Madara is sure he’s flushing, but maybe he can pass it off as the cold?

 

The slight smirk tugging at Tobirama’s lips tells Madara different, but unless he’s told verbally otherwise, Madara is going to continue to pretend that he’s simply getting a full facial cold burn from the wind. “Did you think I wouldn’t?” Tobirama inclines his head and concedes the point for the moment. Voices start to shout; final preparations are underway and the passengers are being directed to board. There are so many things left to say, all balancing on the tip of Madara’s tongue but he is not brave enough to speak the words here and now. He pulls Tobirama into a hug, rests his burning face against the comparatively colder one of his lover as their chests rise and fall in unison, “May the eternal flame light your path, Tobirama.” A painful swallow that nearly chokes him, catches in my throat and refuses to budge, “See that you come home in one piece.” A plea, a request, the truth hidden under an old joke and laughter.

 

Tobirama clutches back just as fiercely, brushes their cheeks together as they disentangle, “So mote it be.” Madara wishes intensely he had used the Water farewell, with deference and respect, for the excuse to kiss and linger, but instead allows the entirely too revealing way Tobirama rests their foreheads together, tangle their hands like so much quiet resolution. A _year_. Did Madara even remember how to survive without another person in his space, without planning for two or prioritizing for another? “I’ll be back Madara. As quickly as I can.” Eyes curl up in a private mirth, vermillion and bright, “Just don’t kickstart a Zombie Apocalypse in my absence.”

 

“They were Reanimated, not zombies,” Madara grumbles gamely back. This tired argument is familiar and comfortable, well worn and broken in like the horrific acrylic blanket Tobirama had bought and that had taken dozens of washes, countless soaks in every old housewife’s do it yourself softening solution, and numerous scratchy, painful naps to become pleasant to the touch.

 

A steadying breath, a deep inhale of mingled breath like perhaps he can imbed Tobirama’s scent into his lungs, and then Tobirama is walking away and not looking back. Even if Madara wanted to call anything after he cannot, he could not, given the way his breath chokes and his voice dies. Everything seems louder, more finite yet dragged out into an eternity: the way the uniforms shout and direct, the way Tsunade tucks herself against him solid and warm and firm, the roar of the engines as they pick up, the cement of his shoes, the thunder of his heart in his ears. Then the plane is gone, winging into the drab blue to who-knew-where for the foreseeable future. If Madara didn’t know better, he would’ve thought he could feel the moment his heart wrenched itself in two to scatter onto the wind after.

 

He instead clambers back into the car and lets Tsunade drive them away, pieces of him left on the tarmac.

 

* * *

  


_“When does your return flight land again?” Madara frowns at his calendar; he’d scheduled to take the afternoon off to pick up Tobirama when he returned from Cha no Kuni, but it hadn’t seem to have saved in his phone calendar. Disappointing, he’d saved the flight number and time in the appointment; how was he supposed to be able to check what terminal or baggage carousel to wait at now? Trying to sort through flights based on a general timetable and arrival airport was a nuisance; would Kagami know?_

 

_Tobirama is silent, and a glance over to him reveals thinned lips and flattened eyes, displeasure tucked into the corners of Tobirama’s mouth that need not be voiced. A questioning tilt of Madara’s head garners a reply, “You needn’t treat me like a child, it’s rather demeaning.” Tobirama’s tone is cold, frigid and without warmth. Madara can only think of one other time he’s ever heard that particular tone, and it was the first and only time Madara had ever watched Tobirama verbally eviscerate Butsuma Senju. He’d had to take 5 year-old-Tsunade and 2-year-old Nawaki to the basement to ride out the worst of it, the whole of Konoha had shaken with the ice-cold tension and anger whipping through the sitting room a whole floor above._

 

_Beyond the tone, though, the words rankled. “Like a child?” Intellectually, Madara knew this was the wrong thing to say, but the odd tension of the past week since he had announced his decision to see Tobirama off had grated and worn his filter down. There was only so much stilted conversation and uncomfortable silences a person could take before it all came crashing down. If only that time wasn’t now._

 

_“Yes. Like a child.” And there was the cutting edge of Tobirama’s tongue. “I am a grown adult who can get themself to the airport in a timely fashion!” And there was the anger, flashing like star rubies under lights in carmellion eyes._

 

_Maybe he needed to get his hearing checked as much as he needs to breathe deeply and stamp on his own burgeoning upset. “Have I ever said or implied you aren’t? Can’t?”_

 

_“What else would you be doing by insisting on driving me to the airport? The city has a perfectly serviceable metro line.” Evenly said, as if the metro is a good, logical choice for transport - admittedly, it is, but it’s so impersonal. Pragmatic for if you have no one to take you to the airport, but so was a taxi. Fine for commuting to work or concerts or other events, but for things like major travel? With bags and delicate technology? And no one to farewell at the doors?_

 

_“Why would you take the metro when I can drop you and pick you up?” Fire God’s Eternal Flame, what conversation were they even having? “I don’t mind doing it!”_

 

_“I would use the metro because I am a grown adult that can get myself to the airport.” This conversation -argument, Madara can admit when a spade is a spade - seemed entirely recursive, doubling back to the start in an infinite loop._

 

_“If this is about my driving again - .” Madara checks his blindspot and smoothly shifts over a lane in preparation to take the exit. Sure, he drives slowly in comparison to the madness that is Senju driving, but he’s still a safe driver. No tickets or citations or traffic violation warnings on his record, unlike some people (fuck Setsuna)._

 

_“It’s about having some modicum of independence and not being smothered! And not being dependent on someone else to remember to pick me up!” And there’s the end of the leash of Tobirama’s temper. Bewildering, as they haven’t both reached the end of their tempers at one another in some time; had things festered that much?_

 

_He whips his head to stare at Tobirama, who looks equally surprised. The silence is heavy, but maybe this is a bigger problem than Madara thought. Mom always said it did no one any good to part on angry terms, which meant hashing it out now. Fire God and all the Small Lords. Carefully, “Do you think I smother you?” Smothering ... was not good. Smothering was not healthy, from what Madara remembers of the seminar Special Victims gives bi-yearly on how to recognize unhealthy relationships in incidents where the police are called. Had things deteriorated that badly? Had he not noticed?_

 

_A heavy sigh, tense yet slow. “Not. Not purposefully. But you ... you often do things that I am perfectly capable of doing myself. Like this.” A broad gesture through the windshield. “I can get myself to the airport or to a party or other ... event without needing you to come get me, without wasting time or energy on everyone’s part. I don’t need an escort, I’ve been traveling alone since well before I first entered University.”_

 

_Oh. The pieces all come together in a sickening snick. Sometimes, Madara forgets that Butsuma Senju is a overbearing asshole who probably traumatized all his sons into incidental independence in the worst ways. There’s a reason Hashi, Tobirama, Kawarama, and Itama only ever refer to each other and the rest of their family formally and with full names, and Madara has to swallow his suddenly resurgent urge to go throttle that sad excuse of a father into the Earth God’s Halls. “I don’t mean - It isn’t meant - .” It’s hard to find the right words, but Madara can see where Tobirama is coming from in hindsight. “I’m used to - It’s.” Nothing is quite fitting. “I’m trying to show I care.” Not the best words, or the perfect ones, or the ones that will fully describe what he’s trying to convey, but it’s a start._

 

 _The stress is palpable, but not fraught or angry, but thoughtful and tired. “It... to me. I. I am not used to people trying to care for me... like this. Or being cared for, really.” A conversation to have further, then, because maybe making meals and doing the laundry wasn’t being received well either. Fire God’s flaming_ **_balls_ ** _. “Neither of us....” Frustration colors Tobirama’s voice, and it is a novelty to know this side of Tobirama, however unwelcome the situation in which it is revealed. “Sometimes, your care feels confining. Like I am ... dependent upon you. I appreciate you caring, but it is sometimes too much, too... uneven.”_

 

_Madara grips the steering wheel tightly. “I don’t mean to be. For it to be.” Pathetic, that that’s all he can say. Madara wracks his brain, “What can I do better?” Because this isn’t uncommon, for Uchiha at least, to try and care for someone who has different preferences for how that care is shown. There’s never been perfect relationship right off the bat, and it’s probably a steep learning curve to know how to best demonstrate care for Tobirama, but Madara can do it. Be less... overbearing._

 

_Tentatively, as if the statement is a bomb about to go off. “We can... compromise? To something more ... balanced? Such as sharing responsibility of apartment housekeeping and chores.” Equality. Balance. It does nothing to his stuttering heart, but it’s a olive branch towards working this out, to trying._

 

_“I can either drop you off or pick you up for trips?” Madara offers back. Compromise, even though every fiber of Madara’s being shuddered at Tobirama lugging suitcases on the metro. They’d arrived at the drop off zone at the airport, and couples and families were farewelling at the curb. He throws the car into park and pops the trunk._

 

_Tobirama considers, frown still present. “A good start, I think.” It says a lot, still, that Tobirama leans over the gear shift and brushes a chaste kiss to his cheek before he exits. “We can talk more tonight? I land at 5pm our time.”_

 

_Madara swallows his unease; this conversation probably was a long time coming and needed to be had, but would be uncomfortable overall. “I’ll call you then.”_

 

_Still, he watches until Tobirama has passed the first international security checkpoint before leaving. Habit, to ensure that nothing important has been forgotten in the vehicle, as much as it is necessary to breathe and remind himself that this isn’t deal-breaking, it’s necessary, and it was probably a long time coming._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes!
> 
> \- Ivy is symbolic of friendship and affection. It can also mean fidelity and loyalty as well as marriage and a strong bond of love in marriage.  
> \- Nawaki is only an idol because his friends need a "brainy one". Do not let this fool you.  
> \- The volcano estate Explains how the Uchiha clan got the attention of the Fire God, but also raises, 1) did the house come before or after?, 2) is it fire proof?, 3) were there multiple generations of fucking. among others.  
> -CONSENT IS SEXY AND EVEN ANGRY HEDGIE MADARA KNOWS THAT.  
> \- The apartment Ships It. Madara just has shite luck with houses man  
> -Madara's Main Love language is Acts of Service - doing things for others to show he cares. Second is Quality Time tied with Physical Touch.
> 
> Tobirama's Main Love Languages is Quality Time. Second is Physical Touch. Third is Receiving Gifts.
> 
> Madara nor Tobirama are big on Words of Affirmation, because they are emotionally constipated assholes who rarely come right out and say what they're feeling.  
> -yes that is a LoTR ref. fight me.  
> -There's a 5 Branches of the God's Range. The one in Tsuchi are dedicated to the Earth God, the sand dunes in Kaze are dedicated to the Air God, the one's in Fire are all volcanoes long dormant (usually, one nearly erupted suddenly once >> Izuna; the Uchiha home is closer to Whirlpool and Wave thus volcanoes), and then then range trickle underwater into a chain of island/ land bridges to Mizu. There's a small branch that go deep into Fang, the God's Graveyard where supposedly the Lady of Death is sealed. That's her part of the range.  
> \- There is probably more but ugh, foreshadowing details
> 
> ((Also, as a heads up - I'm working... three jobs and rarely have time to write. I've been working on this one since early December, so chapters might be far between. I'm apologizing in advance for long update times, but always feel free to come poke at me and see how it's going? I promise this wont be abandoned, it's too integral to a later story's in joke. Yes, there are more fics in this series planned. I have the plot outlines for 9 sitting right here next to me. ))


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Madara does his best to cope. Family happens.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, the new chapter! yay! 
> 
> Many thanks to my brilliant beta [ Spinning_Mouse](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spinning_Mouse) for her amazing help on this series so far and this chapter in particular, you and I both know how many times I thought this was a dumpster fire.

Life drags on. Madara catches himself doing things that have long since become routine but are now unnecessary - there is no one to make a second helping of breakfast for, no one to remember to set the automatic brewing station every night so there’s fresh hot tea first thing in the morning, or to have two sets of clothes to plan laundry day around, one less person to complain about idiotic reality television with,  or eat on the second set of plates and utensils he sets out for dinner, to be his plus one to the Midwinter Fire Dances at the edge of the Gods’ Range with the rest of his family, or to be at the University to surprise with flowers and a neatly packed lunch at their office door for absolutely no reason at all. There is suddenly an unhealthy glut of hours that Madara has nothing to fill with, empty and grey in shades and tones with nothing to do other than lay there and watch the seconds plod wearily on. Burying himself in work helps - Madara has never cleaned out so many cold cases, or processed so much paperwork - but that eventually fails by way of Hikaku staging an Intervention and marshalling the troops to carry him back to his home hogtied, and then babysit to make sure he stayed put on administration mandated vacation. Madara threatens them all with insubordination and cajoles them with raises, to no avail. Their apartment has, subsequently, never been cleaner, and Kagami is halfway to cowed into letting Madara at _his_ apartment before Hikaku intervenes again.

 

Three weeks in and the smell of Tobirama has all but faded from their bed, leaving Madara restless at night and sleeping fitfully - startling at finding their bed empty where there should be mass, jerking awake at the vulnerable _wrongness_ . Nawaki, blessed god-child of his back from tour, regularly comes bearing gifts of coffee and hugs in between classes, on top of his ability to sing. “You got that from your Uncle, you know,” Madara knows he’s slurring his words like an especially non-functional alcoholic, the awkwardly unsubtle bludgeon of the lullaby Nawaki is certainly singing on purpose thwarting the urge to be awake - of all things a love song, because Nawaki isn’t subtle. Nawaki freezes where he stands, but keeps singing even as he sorts inane files to be put into obsolete filing cabinets due to some overzealous imbeciles’ need to have everything in hard copy, and in the dimmed lights he looks more like Tobirama than Hashi. “It’s - soothing, nice? _Something_....” The rest of that sentence is lost to the abyss of sleep, and the last thing Madara knows is the gentle placement of a wadded up blanket under his head that smells of ice pine and ozone.

 

It’s a hollow haunting rest, shallow and disjointedly full of nonsensical dreams - sunlight and blood, flames turning into ribbon pulling two arms together, liquid silver rolling and shining like molten lead dissipating into clouds of mercurial smoke tinted blood red, running running and more running fruitlessly towards something just _beyond_ , black and gold koi swimming in circles that bloomed into thousand-petaled lotus flowers that in turn dissolved into iridescent bubbles, that shattered like glass and dust that gets carried away on the wind. He made mental note to have Mikoto look at the new coffee machines one more time; someone might have spiked the water feeds with hallucinogenic drugs again, before falling back into the whirl of nonsensical images morphing into less intelligible ones. Copper, silver, gold, crystals that sparkle like stars, lightning on snow, ships of war three galleys proud, silken white sheets spilled like ink and smoke. There’s always something just out of reach, something intangible but necessary and the more that Madara reaches for it, the more it slips away, water through his fingers.

 

He wakes with a rough exhale, contorted oddly and with ache in his joints and muscles, the worst of the grogginess of sleep clouding his mind as much as the pain of slumping over in a office chair. Madara’s sure his hair has died an un-peaceful death into a mess of sticks and knots, but damned if he knows where his office hair brush has migrated to under the mess of papers that dominate his desk. He rubs his eyes, and then tries to remember what he was attempting to process before his godchild-bestowed unscheduled sleep. Probably at behest of Tsunade and Hikaku, Four on Their Thrones, Madara is going to have to do something about that isn’t he? After he gets his work done, though; he’s got places to be after all and little leeway for tardiness.  

 

His work almost certainly wasn’t building code violations that were at least 2 centuries old when he left off, meaning Hikaku either proactively stole Madara’s grand larceny case notes or buried them under a new case that needs review. Yet. Madara looks over the floor plan, the case notes and other assorted complaints being leveled across administrative offices. That’s right, a carpenter had built his then-fiancée a house in a time before building codes, and now the city was suing to try and force the family who inherited it to update the building to meet standards. Beyond the fact the historical society and the carpenters guild were in the middle of having a catastrophic combined hissy fit in conjunction the family for wildly differing reasons, Madara couldn’t deny that there was something there, bright eyed with promise while he was still blinking sleep out of his muzzy thoughts. A cluster fuck, maybe? A Four-damned conflagration of shit flinging? A histrionic discordant cacophony of rage and shrieking? Or would it be something else hip and descriptively rude that was escaping him? It doesn’t matter - this is _violently_ not his jurisdiction, and who mistakes the police department for the court recorder's office, Fire God’s _flaming balls_? They were clear across the city from one another -!

 

Any trace of coherency in his train of thought is shattered with the crashing banging open of his office door and Izuna scrambling through like a man on fire with the demons of the Twelve Hell right on his heels. “Mada!!! Come on!! We're running late!” It took entirely too long for Madara to realize what Izuna meant, too long to get his mouth to form the right swear words in what has to be the foulest string of words ever uttered, and then a further minute to realize he is being dragged by the collar through the building still clutching the wrong papers like a child getting dragged out of a grocery store mid-tantrum. Then he has to scramble to his feet, and double back for his coat and coffee and briefcase and throw the misdirected documents at his ever patient aides and then dash back down the hall to leap and roll through the closing elevator doors. He’s panting and trying to stuff a random assortment of hopefully relevant papers into his bag, grateful his work is predominantly stored in the cloud and accessible even in the ends of the world (given adequate internet access). “I shouldn’t have held the doors for you, Mom is going to murder us and feed us to the Flame. Mostly you, as her firstborn and thus most valuable as sacrifice.”

 

“She couldn’t. It’s illegal.” Because _that’d_ be the sticking point for their mother. Madara knows better, _Fire God and all the Small Lords_ , but that’s what came out of his mouth first. Not the fact their mother would have a hard time getting him into the ritual sacrifice outfit with its hundreds of fiddly pieces, or lifting him up the mountain in a palanquin that weighs more than an elephant, or bodily tossing him into the volcano. Or the fact she spends months growing and examining hundreds of pumpkins for sacrificial purposes, wanting the _perfect_ shade of blood red upon slicing in. Nope, the _legality_ of ritual sacrifice is what he uses as a rebuttal. It might be worth jumping into the volcano of his own free will; Madara is never going to live this down. Fuck fire and brimstone.

 

Izuna, best worst sibling that he is, takes the opening. “Mom doesn’t particularly care about the nuances of legality. She still thinks the best method of making a point against your enemies is ‘salt the earth’ tactics and violent explosion to cover the evidence and then chalking the whole mess up to ‘Acts of Gods’. The legality of ritual sacrifice of a living creature isn’t particularly going to register on her radar.” It probably never really had, since the way Uncle Takahiro tells it, Mom and Dad met while working as Black Ops and Mom almost purposefully razed Ame no Kuni due to human traffickers and won Dad over by threatening to disembowel an informant with her bare hands.

 

Madara opens his mouth, but Izuna glares at him over the car hood. “Mada. Oldest brother of mine, Cousin Hikaku notwithstanding. We are two _hours_ behind schedule, two hours that are going to get longer as traffic starts up in earnest for the holidays. If you start arguing about Mom’s odd penchant for anti-open weapons carry laws before we are in the vehicle and moving, I will _literally_ tell Great Aunt Hisako about Tobirama.” Given that Great Aunt Hisako was still the prime suspect in the murder of Hashi and Tobirama’s Great Great Grandfather and their Great Great Grand Uncle, it would be safe to presume nothing good would come of Great Aunt Hisako learning he was dating Tobirama.

 

“You’re only lucky Great Aunt Hisako approves of Touka.” Madara grumbles in lieu of an actual response as he buckles his belt across his torso. Because point blank breaking a sword over one’s knee in response to being threatened with being run through with said sword meant Touka was More Than Acceptable And Why Hasn’t She Been Made an Uchiha Yet _cough cough_ **_Izuna_ ** . Great Aunt Hisako is _still_ campaigning to adopt Touka as her heir and disown her own Less Than Acceptable progeny by any means necessary. Round ... 3? 4? of the argument over whether she can even do that is certainly going to make an appearance this year, Small Lords of Smoke and Ash preserve Madara. Tajima is enough of an asshole to force his first born to have to deal with Great Aunt Hisako for the lols. Or something. He lets Izuna start up the car with an anticlimactic purr, and watches the city whizz by in a rush of color and form.

 

It takes an eternity that passes in a blink of an eye for them to reach the foothills that mark the very southeastern-most boundary of the Hi no Kuni mountains, still topaz citrine garnet ruby bright with the colors of the Fire God’s Eternal Flame even this far into winter. The rest of the Gods’ Range trickled off into the sand dunes of Kaze no Kuni and reached the most spectacular heights in Kaminari no Kuni and Tsuchi no Kuni, if one did not count the naturally taller mountain tops that stretched from the seafloor to break the surface as the island chain/ land bridge to Mizu no Kuni through Uzu no Kuni, but in Hi no Kuni the range stayed majestic and breathtaking in their stately well-forested robes year round. An interstate sign declaring the path to a further northwest part of Hi no Kuni speeds past, and Madara recognizes the place named. He almost calls to Izuna to take the exit, to claim he wants a break though it’s still early in their expected 6 hour travel time (not counting traffic delays), but the indecision gnaws at him and the opportunity flees. With a sigh, over Izuna’s off-key screechy singing accompaniment  with one of the many similar sounding peppy Top 40 pop numbers on the radio, Madara rests his head against the window and remembers.

 

* * *

 

_This town, closer Kiba no Kuni than the major parts of inhabitation in Hi no Kuni, is improbably alive with the deep reds and oranges of Midwinter and the Fire God, a defiant contempt of the burnished grey and black that dominates the mountains in the distance across the lake that marks the border into Kiba no Kuni. The air is full of spices and heat, wood smoke and steam wafting from fresh 4 spice buns grilled over charcoal and half glazed in sweet chili garlic sauce. Madara inhales the comfort of the scent - cinnamon, clove, ginger, spicy savory red pepper; the scents of the season for as long as he can remember, wafting from his mother’s kitchen, from the deep wrinkles in his grandmother’s hands and rising like sweet sacred incense from every article of clothing he wore - before holding out half for Tobirama to take. Warmth to those you wish to keep warm and with you, in action and intention, freely given. “Honestly,” indulgently murmured sotto voce, since it’s been an on and off argument about Madara’s impulse purchases of street vendor food from half-forgotten recollections of favored tastes to share, even as Tobirama takes a bite - a jolt of surprise at the taste flashing across his features._

 

_It’s strange, so so strange, to go around the street market with someone like this. Arms so close they brush against each other was they pick their way through the crowds to peer into stalls eclectic in their wares. The old aunties and uncles who know him, have known him since infancy and his parents longer still, smile and wink and murmur amongst themselves in their trader’s dialect, and to the newer generations besides. Madara wants to bemoan that this is one piece of news that will reach his entire family long before he is ready to tell them, but cannot summon the urge to do so wholeheartedly when he can watch Tobirama here. Tangled up in the joyful echo and refrain of noise and movement surrounding them, items being haggled and bartered and news being shared over the sound of hawkers inviting prospective buyers to inspect their goods. Clearly the experience is novel for Tobirama, and the whole market seems new again for it. Like stopping to admire an intricate column of silver, engraved figures and decorations in bas relief, dominating a metalsmith’s stall - too beautiful to be anything but a sacrifice, something to admire and appreciate for the labor of devotion it is, a piece to inspire wonder and draw attention to the smith’s real wares. A piece Madara would have glanced over and dismissed previous excursions, here capturing his companion’s attention. “Anywhere else, this would be a piece to dedicate to a God, to beg for favor or bargain for a boon. You want me to believe this will be melted down and destroyed as an offering? For no other reason than ‘just because’?” Tobirama whispers against Madara’s ear to be heard over the roar of the crowd, leaning over just so that it would be the work of a moment to twine hands. Would that be too much? Too soon? It’s been nearly 6 months, yet somehow much shorter and longer simultaneously. Madara tamps down the urge in favor of trying to put words to something he intrinsically knows._

 

_“It’s a sacrifice, of course it’s going to be destroyed.” Madara pays special attention to the stalls where Tobirama’s eyes linger longest, hoping for a clue. Saturated maroon skeins of spun wool nestle in his bag, next to the teak and mother of pearl inlaid bowl and the obligation ginger-cinnamon hard candies in boxes he has always given Tsunade and Nawaki, yet he is still missing someone important. Arguably the most important, but he still has so many questions to suss out the answers to before he can even begin to try and think of something appropriate to give. What single item even begins to encompass this new yet familiar-ness? All of it? After a moment, Madara continues, “Why wouldn’t it be?”_

 

_They move on, meandering to look over other choice and fantastical displays. Elegant glass goblets in dizzying colors and fantastical design whirl and bloom here at this booth, clearly meant for romantic couples based on their matching, often interlocking nature. The stooped woman behind the counter winks cheerfully at him, before subtly giving him a thumbs up with a nod towards his companion. He can feel the burn of the blush before it even begins, though it must be more than apparent they are two together and there is nothing to be embarrassed about (disregarding the innuendo from the shopkeeper). “Why would it?The smith is clearly a master of his trade, why give something that clearly took many hours of labor and just as much if not more still in material costs to be... liquidated?”_

 

_This Madara at least knows the answer to, “It goes back to the oldest words for ‘sacrifice’ in the old texts. There is sacrifice in the sense of “giving something up important,” which is one word, but that’s a ... more general “giving up”, it has value but of a different ... level? Category? Then there’s this, where it’s specifically a religious connotation, it’s inherently.... More, more worth? More worthy? You can give something up or you can sacrifice something, in vernacular, I suppose? The offering will be consecrated and offered to the Fire God, then ritualistically killed. Destroyed.” A helpless shrug, “It’s like the difference between the fasts in the Water temples. The weekly fasts versus the major holiday fasts.”_

 

_Tobirama dissects that silently, and Madara can almost see the wheels turning in his head. Finally, at a counter of shawls, Madara finishing haggling with the wily owner for the emerald self-design brocade triangle shawl perfectly suited to Touka, “Killed?” The man and Madara share a conspiratorial wince, and the price decreases 50 ryo magically. Madara gratefully takes the deal though it wounds his pride that he’s being pitied for having to explain something so delicate, and wishes the man a good Midwinter anyways._

 

_“It used to be that living ....things were sacrificed.” An ugly truth, but an old secret among those whose families had been around in those times. Ironic, mostly, since their families were usually listed as ‘benefactors’ in donating to the tradition most frequently in the temple records. An interesting sociological thought quandry about what came first; the social standing from having the surplus and wealth to donate or the surplus to donate equating to elevated social standing. “Animals, mostly.”_

 

_Tobirama accepts this with a tilt of his head, and it’s more than likely that Madara will have a more detailed set of questions to answer at an incredibly inconvenient time point in the future. Hopefully not right before Madara tries to initiate foreplay; knowing his luck it would be. “Something similar was common among the old Water devotees in Uzu no Kuni and Mizu no Kuni. When the typhoons and storms got too bad, they’d force a person into a boat and then out to sea in a vessel that wasn’t intended to survive the journey, in the belief the person would drown and be taken to the Water God and be able to argue for more... beneficence for the people left behind. Why they would expect that person to argue for clemency is beyond my comprehension, but it supposedly worked.”_

 

_Of course Tobirama caught that particular omission. Why would Madara have expected anything else? Still, the information offered freely and without rancor is probably a good thing. Definitely a good thing. Madara matches his companion’s tone. “Humans, even then, were rare as sacrifices. It had to be someone particularly precious or of high status.” A stall of cut and polished crystals and gems, organized by property and color; a ruby-studded gorget set high above the rest as a testament to the atelier’s craftsmanship delicately worked into a dripping gradient waterfall that Madara can just imagine wrapped around Tobirama’s throat, flashing color against snow pale skin. He clears his throat in the vain hope it will erase his mind of the image, “Usually a leader’s immediate family, or a lover, concubine. Sometimes a high ranking prisoner of war, but that was considered distasteful, petty, and extreme even then.” Madara hitches the cloth tote bag from his hand to his shoulder, fingers numb from the biting cold that penetrates the thick heat of the fray of the market. “Hard to properly celebrate the Fire God’s fight against the Lady of Death and her sealing by the Four when you’re too worried about retaliation by the sacrifice’s family.” Unspoken is the fact that this happened at least once between the Senju and Uchiha, nominally with a ceasefire standing and promises of safety to the prisoner. That particular Clan Head had been hogtied in a coup d'etat and thrown bodily into the volcano, if Madara recalls his family history correctly, though the damage had been done._

 

_It’s almost impossible to ignore that Tobirama is biting back questions, formulating and discarding them almost as fast as he can think, zooming lightning fast across his features. Perhaps it’s biased to find the way Tobirama’s face blooms with animation when he thinks is beautiful, but it’s something that Madara has always known to be true. He’s no fool, voicing that aloud would be an invitation to be scoffed at or otherwise teased, especially among his nearest and dearest. But he could watch this mashup of interest-intrigue-fascinating-but-wait work itself out for hours. There’s some things you just don’t let slip out, and that, probably, is one of those things. Instead, Madara blurts out, “Would you like to come?”_

 

_“Like to come?” The teenager in Madara snickers internally, and the disgruntled amusement that Tobirama glares his way indicated he caught the raunchy implication in their exchange. Madara is going to pay for it later, but he is entirely too preoccupied to mind in the present. “Where?”_

 

_The unmanly snort that slips past is better than the awkward nervousness bubbling through Madara’s veins, and he forges on, “To the Midwinter Fire Dances. With Me. The monks and nuns sing out the whole story over the nine nights. And the celebration is not restricted to just followers of the Fire God.” Even though it was still a major religious rite for the Fire God, it was nominally meant to be open to all followers of the Four, just like the other three major religious rites in the year. Rare to see anyone but a Fire God follower, but still. It wasn’t like followers of the other Four were banned or barred entry._

 

_There is a fluttering of lashes over cunning crimson, but it is not coy or flirtatious in the least - poleaxed and befuddled if anything. The silence stretches, and Madara knows his hands are sweating profusely - there’s nothing like inviting his .... whatever to his ancestral clan lands to celebrate a major rite with the entirety of his family, immediate and extended. Tobirama unfreezes before asking quietly, "That would include meeting your family."_

 

_The implication is unsaid, but Madara hears it anyways; formal introductions to the entire family are serious, meant for serious relationships. Meeting the entire family at a religious event is even more serious - like subtly indicating you’re thinking of priests and blessings and going round the Gods’ fire nine times together. Somehow, Madara has managed to really put his foot in it this time, well and truly. Much like trying to figure out the most appropriate gift, the level of seriousness of this... relationship, is nebulous and a multivariate calculus problem on a good day. Tobirama has met his parents in passing and knows Izuna well, but he and Madara only began dating ... five and a half months ago? Closer to six, Fire God’s balls. But the implications here are much more than a hello hi how are you conversation if Tobirama were to run into Tajima or Asakichi by accident in the street. Taking a wild chance, hoping against hope and praying to whatever luck he has left in the year, Madara swallows down the stone in his throat and speaks. “It would.”_

 

_"And what are you going to tell them when they ask why you brought a water devotee and a Senju to the ancestral Uchiha home?" Tobirama is frozen what feels like an ocean away, glacial and unfathomable, thoughts hidden below the surface more complex than what little Madara is given to interpret in body language._

 

_There’s no other course to forge ahead, for all that they are two motionless pillars in the sea of people around them. “I’ll tell them I brought my lover.” He holds his breath, and if he lies to himself and says it’s so he doesn’t have to audibly gulp, then there’s no one to call him on it._

 

_Tobirama’s face twists in horror, distaste and disgust nearly killing Madara before Tobirama speaks, "Significant other or boyfriend works."_

 

_"Boyfriend then." Quiet falls between them then, as the crowd bustles around them like a school of fish and they are permanent crags and outcroppings of the reef, "Are ... Are you okay with that? This? Coming with me?” Please let it be a yes, please please please for the Mercy of the Water God and Celestial Moon and Tides, Madara begs silently._

 

_There’s a start of movement, broadcast like Madara is a spooked animal who must be approached with caution. Given that his heart is doing its best jack rabbit impression, Madara can not begrudge the tactic though he will exercise extreme prejudice at the metaphor. Tobirama links their hands together, and the fit is cold and dry and a little rough but comfortable all the same. "I wouldn't be agreeing to go if I wasn’t."_

 

* * *

 

Madara falls back into the soft, pillowy confines of the futon, every muscle aching. The ugly, ill-maintained mess of potholes and crumbling asphalt that the government insisted upon calling “roads” Izuna had had to carefully drive over were only half to blame - carrying the heavy lacquered palanquin with the Fire God’s idol in the procession from the regular temple in town to the one high up on the volcano’s slopes barefoot hadn’t helped, nor had the Icy Hot tube Madara had forgotten to pack. And then dancing for ... 5 hours? 6 hours? straight on the uneven ground of the plateau until the midnight _aarti,_ then getting roped into a few rounds of _raas_ with his overly awake, inexplicably excited younger cousins and niblings over the protest of his tired muscles meant he felt every inch of the past 24 hours. Is this what it means to be old? It’s only the first night of nine. He’s not even sure he’s gotten all the gravel and sand granules out of his feet, Fire God and all the Small Lords, and all he wants to do is roll into his cot and _sleep_.

 

Still he has to wait for Izuna and Hikaku and Kagami to finish in the bathroom before being able to fall asleep. One too many times being tripped over in the dark and being rudely awoken from deep sleep teaches a person to wait until everyone is in their pallet before turning out the lights and falling into the welcoming embrace of unconsciousness. He stretches out, and easily reaches the edge where his mess of blankets and pillows overlaps with the space that Izuna will occupy in Tobirama’s stead this year, like when they were still children and always assigned adjoining futons in the mess of the other male cousins heaped together in an unused banquet hall. Maybe Izuna will have figured out how not to migrate onto other people’s futons in his sleep? Or tentacle himself into mildly concerning shapes and arrangements of limbs sure to cause injury? Or how to not end up sideways, a full ninety degrees from his starting position?

 

 _Wishful-thinking-little-one._ Hundreds of years of individuals living in these halls have given the estate a rich multi-tonal voice, indulgent but firm and warm if cantankerous at times. So many lifetimes to echo and reflect, Kōjin had already been old and wise long before Madara had first spoken with him, and it showed. Talking with Kōjin was like fumbling awkwardly headfirst into a rushing river - overwhelming with a thousand rushing paths running through, over, around, under, and only a few tenuous threads of loyalty and protectiveness between having every moment of those centuries of information downloaded into his brain. As if to prove his statement, dozens of scenes of Izuna growing up, fast asleep and ending up sideways across all the cousins flash through Madara’s brain as a mad tornado of memory, inflected at the end as a teasing query. Because, sure, Kōjin _could_ come right out as say that the definition of stupidity is repetition of an event and expecting a different result, but chooses not to for reasons best left unexamined. Privately, Madara likes to think it’s because Kōjin is old as sin and delights in being contrary, though that might just generally be a House problem given that Konoha also delights in being difficult, Fire God’s eternal flame.

 

 _Greetings-hello-once-more,_ he pushes out into the general sense of Kōjin. A shiver of timbers being roused after much disuse with the music of iron joinings creaking in harmony tickles against the edges of his mind, and then Madara presses into the sensation of a paternal hand patting his head, a thousand similar interactions between generations of long-dead Uchiha flashing across his mind. If the futon goes from a bare cotton padded layer between Madara and the floor to something less... worn from years of use, then Madara won’t be the one to tell. Fractionally, his muscles relax into the welcoming cushion, at the promise of not waking more sore and with awkward kinks from sleeping on fossilized, ash-hardened wood.

 

 _Did-Tobirama-Not-Come?_ Curiosity edged in concern, braced for bad news. Because of course even the Uchiha ancestral estate likes Tobirama better, Fire God’s _balls,_ though if that’s just a reflection that the Uchiha who inhabit this home like Tobirama or if Madara himself likes Tobirama enough to override everyone else’s dislike is up for debate. Although, the possibility that it’s entirely Kōjin who likes Tobirama so much - . A sharp stinging sensation, like having his ear pinched as a child, _Not-About-Him-Dummy, Answer-the-Question-Please_. Prim and haughty and stern, but underpinned by fond parental scolding.

 

“He’s had to travel. For work.” _Sympathy-comfort-hug_ envelopes Madara, warm and cozy and tasting like soup. Not even good soup, but soup with too much clove and star anise. “Why.” Who would even make such an acrid concoction for Kōjin to have that sense-memory? Steel on steel rings ominously, which explains precisely _nothing_ , Fire God and all the Small Lords.

 

He’s about to argue for an explanation when Izuna tumbles through the sliding door, followed closely by Kagami being pushed by Hikaku. “Madara, quit talking to the house. Izuna, Kagami, in bed. It’s 4 am and we all know the Aunties will start clanging on at some Four Forsaken hour.” Hikaku climbs into the cot, then graces them with a withering dead eyed glare. “If I hear a single _peep_ from any of you and it’s not a real emergency, Fire God help me, I _will_ make you this year’s sacrifices.”

 

Hikaku, as per usual, has a point. _Someone_ had once made the executive decision that all the children need to be roomed closest to the massive kitchen, thus making every noise there reverberate into the kids’ rooms and rudely awakening them well before noon during any holiday while the regular adults slept until the midafternoon. And per Clan Elder requirements, individuals were children no matter their age and were stuck in the children’s wing until marriage or they staged a coup, whichever came first. Given that the Clan Elders had all served with various decorations and honors in the last two World Wars and survived, it was probably best to wait until marriage. Great-Uncle Mamoru might be blind but he could still kill a man with senbon made of pure fire. Madara takes the high road and turns over, “Good night.”

 

“Smart man. Kagami if you even attempt to reach for your phone I will _rip your throat out with my bare hands_.” There’s a slight choking sound and Madara reminds himself that he cannot arrest anyone for a crime he doesn’t have evidence of them committing. If he doesn’t see it he cannot be reasonably presumed to report it. Also, good on Hikaku, he's graduated from threatening people with ripping out their throats with his teeth when he's tired to threatening to do so with his hands. Progress!

 

It’s the last thing Madara truly remembers before being startled awake by the sound of steel cookware hitting burners and the rat-a-tat-tat of knives flying in eerie staccato. The shoji door rockets open and every member of their room shoots upright in a flail of limbs and hair and covers. “ _KAGAMI_ .” Aunt Mari bellows as if she needed to be heard across a crowded parade grounds and not a medium sized bedroom. Someone needs to tell her her drill sergeant is showing. “ _KITCHEN, NOW_.” When Kagami shows no sign of stirring from where he’s trying (poorly) to hide behind Madara, Aunt Mari reaches in and grabs a handful of his clothes then drags him out. “Useless son of mine, put your Blessing to use for once!” She kicks him down the hall with a feral snarl, then brightens pleasantly, “Good morning everyone!” She slams the door closed and marches loudly and perfunctorily down the hall.

 

Hikaku glares murder at the door, “Anyone else think our parents do this in order to get their sweet revenge from when they were kids and put through this nonsense too, or for when we were _actually_ children and kept them up at all hours?” His hair is is wild disarray, the side where he slept on it flattened straight up like a wet porcupine and the rest a birds nest. Madara knows he probably looks no better. Hopefully no one breaks a brush trying to get back to some semblance of decent, or runs out of hair ties. The more practically minded Uchiha tended to have a steep fair exchange hike on brushes and hair ties at these sorts of events; Hikaku still owes eternal servitude to little Cousin Aiko for that one time.

 

Izuna unearths himself from where he’s ended up near the closet, buried under all four of their blankets. “Both? Can we say both?” The sounds of the other kids’ rooms being raided echoes around them, along with the groans and moans of despair, sending pangs of pity through him. In all likelihood, it’s worse for the youngest ones, who probably stayed up for hours talking to one another instead of sleeping, but there are some things one only learns through experience. He’ll pass them chocolate anyways; it's a holiday after all.

 

“Wh’t-er th’ odds they’ll’ve’d made cof’ee?” Madara carefully extracts a lock of hair from where it's taken up residence in his mouth. Coffee would be amazing right about now, and some of Mom's maple syrup doughnuts? But those were only broken out on day 7, in celebration of the Fire God dealing the last blow against the Lady of Death before she was sealed, and he’ll have to put up with bland rice porridge and boiled eggs with pepper and salt if they’re lucky. His stomach grumbles at the thought of food, no matter how plain.

 

“Mada, Mom and the Aunties won't let you have coffee until at least 11 am and you know it.” Glad Izuna is on his side, faithful loyal brother of his. See how he likes when Madara refuses to let him have any sugar during the day-long ceremony in 6 days. 5 days? 5 days. He yawns and tries to finger comb his mane into some semblance of presentable. The smell of soot and wood smoke rises from his hair, incongruent because Tobirama isn’t here to wrinkle his nose and then hand Madara the clarifying shampoo to strip the scent before it became married to sweat and scalp oil and trail after him all day.

 

A sweatshirt hits him in the face. “Come on Mada. Get dressed. The food should be ready by now.” Hikaku takes Madara’s glare in stride while he folds his futon back into the closet. “If we get there early, we might be able to get toast off ‘Gami.” By which Hikaku means blackmail and generally extort, Madara likes Hikaku’s style.

 

The proverbial carrot incites Madara to move, slipping the oversized hoodie on. The interior is the guilty secret cozy sort of soft and fuzzy, and Madara can bet that if he checked the hood would have cat ears. This is why Izuna is never allowed to pack for Madara - how could he have forgotten? The snickering he’s getting proves his point, the flash of a phone camera going off as the hood is knocked over his head, “Smile Mew-dara.”

 

“Izuna.” Madara takes a deep breath, then in a tone of voice previously reserved for making suspects shit themselves and pray for the Water God’s mercy, “ _Run._ ” Izuna takes one look at Madara, then drops his phone and books it through the door and down the hall. Madara breathes deeply for four seconds then gives chase. It’s childish, and idiotic on levels of _wood floors that are freshly waxed_ and _shoji doors and walls are majority paper_ and _the house is crowded with people you’re going to hurt someone_ but who even cares. Madara has a neck to _wring_ , _Fire God’s Eternal Flame_.

 

Madara is rounding a sharp corner when a wrinkled, gnarled hand catches him by the hood. “Oi, idiot. You’re gonna kill someone.” Is this how a scruffed kitten feels? Great Uncle Daiki shakes him like a misbehaving puppy, and Madara can hear the stifled, delighted giggles of his younger cousins and assorted niblings that have been trailing him like imprinted ducklings. “Screw, small fry.” The jolt through Madara’s body tells him Great Uncle Daiki has done his signature thumb-jerk, and the shadows of small bodies huddling together and rushing past tells Madara that the little ones listened. “Now, idiot great nephew mine, take an old man for coffee.” Madara opens his mouth to protest because the aunties won’t just hand over the coffee, “Can it kid. If those old biddies think they can railroad me into not getting coffee before they’re ready to hand it over, they’ve got another thing coming.”

 

Madara obligingly complies - because Great Uncle Daiki is older than dirt and historically led a band of misfits into taking out over a fourth of the military officials on the opposing side of the first world war, then led a strike team that nearly assassinated the despotic leader of Mizu no Kuni in the following world war with a spoon and with half his body busted up and bullet ridden. If anyone can steamroller the Ladies Uchiha as a collective into relinquishing the coffee, it’s Great Uncle Daiki. “So, hedgehog, where’s your smarter partner?” A heaping bite of porridge and chopped egg mumbles the words.

 

It takes a minute to realize who Great Uncle Daiki is talking about. “Tobirama? Oh, he had work.” The coffee tastes like ash; hadn’t Tobirama told him once that smell was the majority of taste? Maybe he should’ve washed his hair before breakfast if the smell coming from it is this strong. “Military stuff. You know how it is.” Great Uncle Daiki nods sympathetically and goes back to doggedly chewing his breakfast with grim determination, like it’s a war ration and he’s back in the trenches battling the enemy and trench foot simultaneously and not a perfectly mushy porridge that’s under seasoned and thoroughly slimy made with love and real food.

 

The rest of breakfast is a blur, alternating between making supply runs for coffee while dodging the evil eye of the assorted Aunties and making small talk about what he’s been up to since he last saw Great Uncle Daiki. Great Uncle Daiki has apparently been embroiled in a stand-off with the military police over his rights to parade in the veterans parade grounds, but the twinkle in Great Uncle Daiki’s eye tells Madara that not only does the man in question _know_ that the veterans parade grounds are only dedicated to veterans in name, but he’s banking on the fact that the military police aren’t going to to try and deal with a veteran who served in two World Wars and is technically a retired general who outranks the lot of them even if he’s probably slightly crazy. It’s amazingly impressive, if questionable, and Madara really hopes that Great Uncle Daiki doesn’t get arrested at any point in his endeavor. Hashi and the rest of the government would have a conniption, and so would the Clan Elders, and so would the military. The sheer amount of paperwork involved would be traumatizing. Madara takes the earliest opportunity to flee for less chaotic pastures, because no one needs to be named an accessory to that sort of scheme especially an officer of the law.

 

Madara should’ve taken Great Uncle Daiki, who generally can’t be bothered to learn anyone’s name unless they’re important or a nuisance or both, as a warning sign that the Uchiha in general have a vested interest in his relationship. It becomes a tired refrain; shock, awkward and consoling, “Did Tobirama not come?”, “Your Senju, did you break up?”, “When is Tobirama coming?”, “Where is Tobirama?”, and on in every variant and combination from young to old. Madara itches at the pity and quiet horrified whispers that precede him in every room, and the distressing number of children who come and offer completely unnecessary solace in various forms. Some individuals have no shame, coming up with faked nonchalance, as if they haven’t heard already but need to confirm themselves. The number of people who believe they can fix his supposed “broken heart” by setting him up with someone else or by aggressive application of murder is entirely appalling, if at least countable on two hands and no higher. More prevalent is the number that give him tips to win back Tobirama (usually involving lots of groveling and begging forgiveness), since the going consensus is that Madara will never do better (even if the person in question is a Senju); Tobirama would find it all hilarious though, given the disdain and avoidance he received when he first attended the Fire Dances. Madara, sprawled out on the _engawa_ and warmed through by dull winter sunlight, lets the soft susurrus of the children in the garden take him back.

 

* * *

 

_“Madara, perhaps I am wrong, but I get the distinct impression your family dislikes me.” Tobirama considers the shot of sickly sweet vermicelli, sweet basil seeds, and rose syrup mixed with ice cream he’s been forcibly handed, and Madara winces at the sight of it. Traditional though falooda might be, it was not a taste anyone really enjoyed let alone let anyone who was a guest have without copious amounts of warning. That it had been thrust into Tobirama’s hands spoke volumes, as much as the polite but frigid smiles and the pointed berth all the rest of the Uchiha gave. The eyes that lingered too long then flitted away guiltily, the whispers behind raised hands or in clumps, the double takes and over solicitous aunties who were acting like a foreign dignitary had come rather than Madara’s boyfriend. The case could be made the issue was the issue was the “boy” bit of “boyfriend”, but the prognosis still wasn’t good._

 

_They’d arrived just in time for the start of the dances three days ago, and now the musicians were tuning and warming up as the altar was set up in the center of the plateau for the fourth night. Madara pulled at the shoulder seam of the tunic his mother had gifted him, the roughness of the metallic gold thread woven through the cloth irritating the tops of his shoulders already. “I wouldn’t say that they don’t like you.” Though that was certainly in play, since at least one person is trailing them like Tobirama is going to single handedly commit a massacre tonight of all the Uchiha in attendance. “It’s more that they don’t know what to make of you?” A half truth at worst, probably. It would be true for most of Madara’s generation, at least._

 

_All this garners is an ungainly snort, “Madara, diplomacy doesn’t suit you.” Visibly steeling his nerves, Tobirama throws back the little cup of disgusting, chokes a little, but gamely swallows. A gaggle of children stop murmuring and boggle, and exchange speaking looks. Madara sympathizes wholeheartedly, especially when the children scatter and give Tobirama a wider berth than would be easily disguised as polite. “Now, excuse me, Kagami promised to demonstrate the steps to that one dance, the one with the continuous jumping in circles within  circles.”_

 

_An advanced dance; three bounces forward counterclockwise, two jumps back clockwise, spinning in place as you move forward in sync with the other dancers circling the altar. Most people only ever managed to look like bouncing idiotic rabbits attempting it, eventually falling out as the tempo increased and they invariably missed a step, but Tobirama. Tobirama, who never missed a step, moved lithe and graceful like a professional dancer where everyone else flailed and panted with exertion. Tobirama who caught the patterns with minimal instruction, even in the midst of whirling around, dodged limbs and rhythm sticks without a thought in the whirl of the confining concentric rings circling the center, who was strange and water and yet moves like he’s done this his entire life. It’s hypnotic in the best and worst ways, Fire God’s flaming balls._

 

_Madara can understand the looks and whispers, the different white hair and garnet eyes, the Mastery marks and strong set of Tobirama’s spine, the unmistakable Water of him in a sea of Fire burned black and ash white. That few are avoiding Tobirama for his family name and only partially buried Clan grievances and grudges, but rather the sheer intensity of his person, the ways he wears their clothes and moves even as he stands out as “not Us”. There’s more, ideas and shapes of thoughts Madara has never had to consciously put to words - the little ways Tobirama is marked different - the way the tunics sit uncomfortably, the way the motions and words of the aarti are foreign - but the ways the other Uchiha try to slight him, give him space and formalities because he is guest and Senju and Madara’s significant other and those have weight and not all of it good. Like the falooda, and the almost certainly purposeful avoidance and civil tight words that belie the Uchiha’s perfunct dislike of this outsider intruding._

 

_The music starts up, and the old grannies start the slow methodical steps of the original dances, three beats plodding on steadily. Once the first ring going around the altar is complete the second will start to fill, pushing the first out, and then so on until there’s barely space to move, then it will slowly empty out as the tempo increases. For now, it’s fine to wait to join in, letting the heavy skirts and glittering bead and mirror-work swirl and fill the space. Nothing hurts worse than getting a skirt wrapped around your legs like a whip, yanking your feet out from under you and eating dirt. Izuna siddles over. “So, Mada, how’s introducing the whole family to Tobirama going?” The hardly buried glee in his little brother’s eyes tells all. Small Lords of Ash and Smoke preserve him._

 

 _“I’m not telling you anything for the betting pool.” Izuna deflates momentarily, then perks up. “_ **_No_ ** _, Zu-zu.” Deflation again, put upon and wilting like a flower in heat._

 

_Izuna took too much after their mother and her side of the Clan, damn that pout. “Come ooooon Mada. Tobirama is here. With everyone and their brother - literally! - and you won’t give me the details? Has anyone tried to assassinate him yet? Has Setsuna kicked up a fuss? Or are they all doing the dignitary protocol? I’ve got to figure out the best plan of action if Touka ever wants to come.” The over-enthusiastic batting of his eyelashes gives away Izuna’s lie as a half-truth at best._

 

_Privately, Madara thinks the operative word there is “wants”. “Touka will get along well.” If Madara doesn't say why, then Izuna will fill in the blank with something flattering and not “because Touka would blindside, brawl, then curbstomp the Uchiha into compliance and possibly friendship with steel toed boots.” Or “Touka would have the decency to flail about dancing like everyone else.” Oh, she'd look arresting in the traditional skirt and blouse and draped scarf, that would be the same between the cousins, but looking the fool would go a long way to being approachable and unthawing the clan as a whole. Though, Tobirama is too... mesmerizing even covered in sweat. Madara immediately starts reminding himself why thin, tight, cotton pants are not the ideal situation for recalling the way sweat beads and runs down Tobirama’s temple and neck._

 

 _“That still doesn’t answer my question. Also tuck your tongue back in, people will talk.” Izuna rams his elbow into Madara’s sternum with zero compunction; that will undoubtedly leave a large bruise. “Seriously, do I need to stage an intervention with everyone? Tobirama, for all that we’ve had our..._ **_differences_ ** _is an okay guy. And he seems to make you happy.” Begrudgingly, as if the last tidbit was the only thing keeping Izuna from trying another ill advised magical duel with Tobirama. Almost, guiltily, Madara suspects that even at his best Izuna would lose and lose quickly and badly._

 

_Still, that Izuna would try and run interference was high praise, even if it came after a fashion. From the corner of his eye Madara sees a blur of butter yellow and black chased by neon green and purple, collision course charted straight for where Tobirama is listening to Kagami and Satsuki argue about the correct start and pattern for a particular step. Madara reaches out in vain, as if he can stop little children raising hell from across the space, and watches as the yellow and black slam full speed into Tobirama. As if orchestrated, the room around the duo freezes on the inhale, as Akari stumbles back face already contorting in pain and confusion. Madara doesn’t really understand the reaction of his family as Tobirama crouches down, focused on her and Machiko behind her. “Hello, little one. Are you alright?”_

 

_“Hi, Uncle.” Akari twists her hands up in her skirt, tears pricking her eyes, voice soft and expectant of reprimand. “Sorry for running into you.”_

 

_Tobirama clicks his tongue reproachfully. “All well and good, but that doesn’t answer my question. Did you injure yourself?” The words are formal in tone, but their delivery is kind and lacking bite. “You crashed into me quite hard.” From an unseen pocket, a handkerchief is produced and offered._

 

_“No, Uncle, I’m fine.” Her voice is still quiet, but less weighted, unsteady at the lack of expected reprimand from a stranger. She takes the odd sky blue cotton square and dashes away the fermenting tears from the corners of her eyes._

 

_“Excellent. Now, your cousins seem to have absolutely zero knowledge about how to perform what should be very simple pattern dances, so tell me....,” the silence is pointed and Akari bashfully supplies her name as prompted, “Akari, can you make heads or tails of what these two fumbling fools are saying? They’re telling me right foot flick, left foot flick, semi-turn counterclockwise, left, right, three step reverse turn and repeat.” Tobirama sketches out the moves as he speaks the words, disjointed but steady._

 

_A pleased giggle at the mock-irritated epithet aimed at Kagami and Satsuki, “It’s supposed to be the opposite,” and the giggles grow louder still when Tobirama lays into his erstwhile “teachers” for shoddy instruction, lackadaisical demonstrations, and probable general incompetence. Madara can’t really tell over the chatter of everyone else, nervous, evaluating, considering._

 

 _Like a sigh of relief, air returns around Madara with the noise, which is confusing - has no one ever considered Tobirama with his niece and nephew? Or with any of the students at the University?He’s far and away considered a favorite at both, if a bit strict. Is it so surprising that he’s good with children? A few Aunties are eyeing Madara in manner that is probably supposed to be discrete, but fails to be anything but overt, clearly approving, Fire God’s_ **_balls_ ** _. Izuna leans over, “Well, Mada, you want to be the one that tells Tobirama his fondness for kids thawed the hearts and minds of the Uchiha Clan or shall I?”_

 

_The shove Izuna gets is perfectly appropriate and that asshole can get the volcanic ash stains out of his clothes by himself perfectly fine Mom taught him how to work a washer and dryer._

 

* * *

 

Time crawls and flies in alternation simultaneously, a thing that drags 7 legions large and about as fast. By dawn of the 7th day, the exhaustion weighs so heavily, everything is eggshells and fine Tsuchi-made ceramics and luggage by the crate under his eyes. Every night has gotten more and more crowded, every midnight aarti more pressed and the estate more cramped. An itch is ever present on the back of his neck that he is being watched and judged and found wanting, the urge to flee and hide somewhere alone. Kōjin helps some, Izuna and Hikaku a lot, and more often than not Madara finds himself taking cover and trying to avoid the questions and incredulous stares and judgement. Kagami loving and pityingly takes the time to dig out his ipod and lock it on his Feelings™ soundtrack, and Madara has to be held back from strangling him.

 

For once, his Blessing isn’t a burden so much as a solace, giving him a heads up of when to muddle through and where to take cover. Kōjin, unlike, Konoha or Tobirama and his apartment, has had enough time to learn the value of silence, of listening, and of chattering his heart out to any available ear seemingly at random. It’s easy to dodge visitors like this, in the call and answer of stories and discussions, Kōjin pouring a thousand conflicting feelings together to capture each event to make an emotion Madara can’t name but resonates within him anyways. And thus the days pass in a slow herd of nights of dancing and prayer, and the days in withdrawn, hidden rooms for as long as Madara can get away with it.

Today, at least is a respite from his family for large religious ceremony purposes; there’s not much room for inquisition barely hidden as discussion when following the priests’ directions closely. There’s a deja vu and dysphoria to sitting with his parents and brother again in front of the main fire, to letting his brother tie the sacred string around his right wrist too-tight sloppily instead of Tobirama’s perfect knot that’s always snug but not too much so that it won’t fall apart for months on end. The too-firm messy press of deep red of oxidized tumeric to his sixth chakra point, instead of the quick dot in a perfect circle. The awkwardness of having to be mindful of his movements and Izuna’s and his parents’ instead of just Tobirama’s, reaching and stuttering through the opening prayers. Fumbling through readying the idol of the Fire Lord and the Small Lords, instead of four hands moving in concert towards the same goal. And the hole where Tobirama’s clunky reproduction of the priests’ chants should be next to Madara’s own sure repetition, or his subtle spells to keep their water topped up during the offerings and ceremonial preparation of the small idols in front of them, in tending the God’s fire and laying in the flowers, the rice, the sandalwood; through the sacrifice, final aarti, and ending the havan. There’s an image to maintain as the main family sitting at the front of the havan, so Madara cannot dwell on the disquiet and discomfort of having his immediate family surrounding him going through motions they have undergone together from as far back as he can remember. The perk of getting the ceremonial sword and chopping open the sacrificial gourd in all its blood red glory is _something_ , of dropping it slowly into the waiting mouth of the fire and then letting the priests come and anoint them all with the still-warm ash _,_ but it is far from enough.

 

It could be the hunger from the day-long fast talking, but the entirety of the whole thing feels like a twilight zone. Kōjin hums thoughtfully, buzzing and punch drunk. A gentle nudge from Madara and the floodgates spill forth, hundreds of other such events of times gone past, long dead Uchiha gathered and celebrating and loving and living on these lands, something that together screams of family and domestic felicity. _Home-home-home-home!_ It trills like a question, an answer, a declaration, and an imperative command. Of whom or what is the question.

 

It’s late, so late and the Aunties are pulling out the food they’ve stockpiled to feed those fasting before the dances- nothing green or that grows above ground, no vegetables, nothing sour or bitter or acidic, no grain, all barely seasoned with fennel and black pepper and salt but nothing more. The sawa millet khichadi brings to mind the surprised twist to Tobirama’s features the first time he had tasted it, the meal pale grey-white and unappetizingly lumpy, but simple and easy to digest and flavorful and smooth diluted with Aunt Hikari’s secret recipe for chickpea and yogurt-buttermilk gravy, tempered with the intensest chiles known to humanity. Tomorrow will be soup, and Madara knows that Tobirama always loved that day best - spending the day in the kitchen methodically preparing army sized vats of soup to be pilfered at will by sneaky boyfriends and the legion of children that comprised of his minions. _You-Miss-Him-Fiercely_ . A statement of fact, idly commented upon, but edged in confusion and accusation and exasperation at idiocity. _Should-Bring-Him-Home_ . Madara pauses in preparing ingredients for tomorrow, ready to explain that human jobs don’t work like that only to get the sense of a finger being held up to stop him from speaking. A scratch through of lines, correction quickly forthcoming, _Make-Him-A-Home_.

 

The difference in the two statements is subtle, something no one else would catch or understand unless they were Uchiha, or at least Uchiha with a Blessing. Madara thinks over grilling Kōjin on which meaning he means, only to be drawn out by the vibration of his phone. “Tobirama?”

 

“Well met, Madara,” Crisp and even to anyone untrained, but outlined in mirth at Madara’s surprise. “Merry Deathblow Day.”

 

“Well met, Tobirama. You know that’s not what it’s called.” Nevermind that that _was_ the colloquial name for the holiday, and the vernacular. Still Madara can’t hide the delighted fondness from his voice, the blunted corners to his grousing belying his true feelings.

 

“But I’m not the one who actively can pronounce that mess of syllables.” A blatant lie, probably. Tobirama was suspiciously good with languages, yet never worked on learning the Old Tongue, and consequently fumbled through anything remotely related. ”How are you?”

 

“I’m -I -,” There’s no lie easily forthcoming, so Madara hedges around the question. “I’m waiting for the family to go to the plateau. And you?” Madara leans back against the pillar, settling himself against the ground to bask in the rich baritone across the line.  

 

An aggrieved sigh, “It’s the military. Father would be proud. Everything is regulated, the food tastes like excrement, and I am getting ever closer to strangling someone.” A rattle that sounds suspiciously like a door unlocking, “Orochimaru has made some interesting observations that will probably serve for his thesis and then more if this is the field he chooses to pursue.” A pause as if they were both right there in the same space, sharing a glance to describe exactly how unlikely it would be for Orochimaru to _not_ pursue more Experimental and Theoretical Magic.

 

Madara opens his mouth to speak, but all that comes out is a shrill shriek. He pulls his phone away from his ear on reflex, but it does nothing to blunt the sound. “Uncle Tobirama!!! Hiiiiiii!!”

 

That is definitely not from Tobirama’s end of the phone then. Fuck fire and brimstone. A small set of hands grasp at his wrist and pulls his phone down to face level, babbling excitedly into the receiver a thousand miles a hour in gleeful abandon. If anyone can actually understand what’s being said, it’d be a miracle. “Kaede, slow down.” Gently, Madara prises her off and into a sitting position. How or why his youngest niece fixated on Tobirama is up for debate, but she always manages to sniff him out if he’s anywhere in the vicinity. And once she’s found him, the floodgates open.

 

Madara thinks he can hear the pitter-patter of small feet stampeding towards their location already, trailing the sound of Kaede grunting with effort to regain control of the phone around Madara’s longer arms. “Hey, Kaede is here. She wants to talk to you.”

 

Without further adieu, he lets Kaede have the phone to have a much more manageable conversation now that she’s sure no one will stop her from chattering at her favorite uncle due to needing to have An Adult Conversation™. “Uncle Tobirama! Where are you?! You promised you’d teach me that Water Bullet spell next time and it’s been a whole year so it should be next time already but you’re not here and how am I supposed to stop setting off the smoke detectors when I practice my Great Fireball spell now???” Kaede continues her remonstration at bullet train speeds, hardly letting Tobirama get a word in edgewise.

 

Sooner or later one of their other family members will find them and sound the alarm and the place will be swarming with Uchiha passing the phone around and talking happily about everything under the sun with Tobirama on the other end - close yet far away and very much here not here. Like the slow trickle of volcanic sand through the antique heirloom clock, various other family members come in and pass the phone around - solid and sure as the sunrise, truer than the whisper of the wind.

 

It feels like hours but finally, _finally_ Madara gets the phone back. Various other family members are lounging around in small groups, and his battery is on its last legs. “Sorry about that.”

 

A short mouthful laugh, “No you’re not.” It's true, Madara isn’t. He has to run the gauntlet of Senju at the Earth God holidays every year, turnabout is fair play. There’s a smile in Tobirama’s voice, which is more calming than Madara expected; some part of Madara has never forgotten his family’s initial ostracization and keeps expecting the other shoe to drop.    

 

“No, I’m not.” Silence for a beat, to listen to the muffled huff of Tobirama biting back a laugh. “Tell me about where you are, what you’re up to.” The urge to interrogate is strong, and it takes biting his own lips to suppress asking the litany of questions poised at the tip of his tongue. _Are you eating enough? Sleeping enough? The people who are irritating you, remember to hide the bodies well and don’t get caught. Do you have enough sweaters, socks? Did you leave anything that you need? I can bully the military into accepting a care package. What about medicines, do you have enough? I can make a new batch of stress relief balm in a week, and get it sent immediately if I ask. Do you have enough tea? Enough time for your prayers each day? Time to unwind?_

 

Beside him, Izuna elbows Kagami and they share a conspiratorial snicker. Madara ignores them, even though it’s going to come back and bite him in the ass, because the tenor of Tobirama’s voice is strong in his ear. “It’s a deciduous forest, based on the size of the tree trunks and the quality of the bark, and few points where sunlight naturally makes it down to the forest floor. Brother would enjoy himself here. The locals have cleverly figured out how to farm in terraces in the upper canopy, so there’s a surprising about of fresh vegetables, and some have large multi-part tree houses. Most people live among the roots though, stacked into tiers around and up the trunks, and the homes are still just as fantastic, like something out of a high fantasy series. The air is clean, crisp, and smells like petrichor.” Basic enough to cover more than half the forests in Hi no Kuni, give or take, and won’t trigger the military auditor possibly listening in into ending the call and arresting anyone for treason. It feels good to hear Tobirama’s voice in his ear, mildly pleasing and convivial even as Madara learns more about the agricultural practices of rural Hi no Kuni than he’s ever going to need to know. The subtle nuances that memory forgets to reproduce, the low murmur and timber even and quelling the need to know Tobirama. The background sounds of sizzling and the clank of a grill being turned over flame - grilled fish then - are telling too. A desire for a favorite, but not trusting the freshness of the fish so cooking it is a must.

 

Silence falls as a voice- ostensibly Orochimaru, from the shush-shush syllabant rise and fall - calls out from the background. “If you have to go -,” Madara doesn’t know how he was planning on finishing that sentence, so it dies off with a woeful whimper.

 

The sigh he gets is weary worn and care full, something that itches between Madara’s shoulders, the need to do, to be. Fuck it, Madara is sending tea. “I do have to go, something has come up. Merry met, Madara. Give my best to your mother.”

 

There are words Madara wants to say, wants to know Tobirama will hear, but they strangle his throat, so pathetic and heavy, “Merry met and merry part Tobirama. Stay safe.” And the line dies. The gentle sting of the sun loses something, and the colors all seem greyer suddenly, a bit foreign and strange and oddly discordant even though Madara has known Kōjin and every inch of the estate since he was born and it should be safe. Of the Uchiha that had come, only Izuma and Kagami and Kaede remain. _Home-Home-Home-Home_ says Kōjin sadly, as if that explains everything.

 

Kaeded pauses in playing Tetris on Kagami’s phone, “Hey, Hey, Uncle Madara, when did you become a housewife?” Izuna and Kagami snicker at Kaede’s question, as if it should be funny but like a bolt of lightning it strikes true. The weight of the term is heavy but right, and it doesn’t rankle across his nerves like he would have expected. He stares at the dead and dark phone in his lap and the idea of it fits even and smooth like the click of a puzzle piece slotting into it’s space.

 

Kōjin sends a wave of reassurance, thousands of knowing nods and gentle proud pats across Madara’s senses. _Make-Him-A-Home_ , he intones sagaciously, and something dead and withered in Madara unclenches. It’s something, new and frightening but steady and bright. Izuna stops laughing and his face contorts into horror, “Mada, _no_.” Kagami chokes mid-chortles and turns deadly red trying to return steady breath to his lungs.

  
But all Madara can think is _yes._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> World building notes!
> 
> -Uchiha technically refer to each other as "brother" or "sister" even if they are cousins. It's actually "cousin-brother" or "cousin-sister", but due to modern societal conventions they use "cousin" in reference unless amongst only themselves.  
> \- Madara calls Hashirama "Hashi" as a house name, like a nickname but more. You don't call your SO by a house name; the only ones you call by house name are those who are like siblings/ you grew up together like sibilings. So Madara will never call Tobirama "Tobi" because that'd be like saying "Tobirama is like a brother to me" when the reality is v. different. However, it's fine for Hashi, because Hashi is like his brother from another mother and while it's weird to call your SO's siblings a house name/ diminutive, there's history there that Madara can't/ won't overlook. More on this later.  
> -Great-Aunt Hisako fought as an infiltrator/assassin during one of the World Wars and still keeps up with the training. She has a kill count in the hundreds, and the Mizu no Kuni still has a flee on sight order for her even though she's nearly 100.  
> -She did in fact kill Hashi and Tobirama's Great Great Grandfather, but she won't say why. It's assumed because he was going around intimidating the ladies of the neighborhood for protection money for the mob he was a part of, but the man's wife would tell you it's because he forced refugee women into marriages with men for money. There's no proof either way.  
> -There's a 5 Branches of the God's Range. The one in Tsuchi are dedicated to the Earth God, the sand dunes in Kaze are dedicated to the Air God, the one's in Fire are all volcanoes long dormant (usually, one nearly erupted suddenly once >> *Izuna*; the Uchiha home is closer to Whirlpool and Wave thus *volcanoes*), and then then range trickle underwater into a chain of island/ land bridges to Mizu. There's a small branch that go deep into Fang, the God's Graveyard where supposedly the Lady of Death is sealed. That's her part of the range.  
> -Asakichi means "joyous sunrise" Just a fun fact.  
> -Kōjin is the Japanese god of fire, of the hearth, and the kitchen. The house is older than Konoha and has a more developed personality -- that is to say that Kōjin can speak/ think/ project full sentences and imbue those with memories etc in order to get their point across. Konoha is ... more fragmented.  
> \- House names: Mada - Madara  
> Zu-zu - Izuna  
> 'Gami - Kagami  
> Hika - Hikaku  
> Only close family or close friends will ever use a house name with one another. This is to show how you are related to someone else within a massive Clan - those who know you well will use your house name, and fakers who want to pretend they're close to you when they're not (in which case you would still call them their full name and basically call them out for being liars), but everyone else will use your regular/ legal name  
> \- "Stick your tongue back in": aka -people will think Tobirama is keeping Madara under control via his .... _bedroom skills_. That's not a good impression to give on first introductions, but fine for later (the difference between a new relationship and a long term committed one is that implying one or the other is good at sex is fine in the latter but not the former)  
>  \- Kōjin is in the style of a traditional noble mansion of the Heian period[shinden-zukuri](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Shinden-zukuri),aka a massive sprawling, traditional Japanese mansion a la the Kyoto Imperial Palace (not exact but similar). Yes that is important. There are all sorts of rules and things (like where rooms are placed) associated with the style, but it has been embellished for my usage, mostly the size and the way the sleeping arrangement is done (aka, where ever there is space, with massive amounts of rooms). Creative License was taken, and I admit it. 
> 
> As always, feel free to leave your comments or concrit below in the comment box! Y'all have no idea how happy those make me, or how often they keep me at the keyboard after a hard day. 
> 
> Feel free to come scream with me on [ tumblr](http://modernart2012.tumblr.com)!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rising action, and plot happens. 
> 
> Madara gets a ball rolling. Feelings are had.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guess who doesn't know restraint! This gal! Alternately, the chapter count rose again.

It’s a cumbersome effort to sit still and be patient and wait, when a course of action is tantalizingly within reach. It’s almost a certainty now, foregone as a conclusion for Madara to catch himself browsing property or auction sites at any given point in time; bank foreclosure listings and estates that are looking for a buyer, looking up plots of land for sale, inspecting random yet promising neighborhoods and pouring over Google Maps to decipher distances and commutes and ease of accessibility to favorite areas. Printouts, some new, some old, lie in vaguely organized piles, scribbled across in various hands and implements, the neat fountain pen annotations in Uzu blue ink definitely not Madara’s but enlightening still after all this time. Fires  _ above,  _ it's like a revelation, old made new.Quiet and regimented but succinct, every word crisp with nary a blot of ink run even long after the edges of the paper had frayed and yellowed and crinkled pulp soft. A guidebook with points of interest noted mapping the shape and outline of what he wants but that raises more questions than answers the deeper he forays into its pages. 

 

For all the direction he has, Madara still knows deep and soft and bedrock solid and true - nothing he has found is just right, oh so much tailored to fit into patterns preset, not yet. Something is always just off, just so much unaligned, uncomfortable and  _ wrong _ that even with pictures Madara knows better than to step foot on any property. Perhaps it’s why he delays and excuses and procrastinates in calling their realtor, the one who hadn’t looked at them like they were crazy and destined to fall apart faster than they could move in together. She had instead cheerfully taken them on, as picky and difficult to please as they were, and found their current apartment, a herculean effort that bore fruit. He couldn’t even begin to articulate to her what he wants or needs at present in a site, or begin to handle carefully phrased questions that are sure to arrive with unnerving crisp professional directness about things he is tired of explaining, doesn't have the words to encompass and express. 

 

Kagami, incorrigible and unrepentant, keeps getting into the police office, sneaking by the seething mass of secretaries and officers  _ somehow _ , and eyeing Madara surreptitiously and then subsequently making suspect phone calls, which means Madara has to sic Hikaku on him again. Even if Kagami does leave parcels of admittedly excellent food behind him, the way Madara’s phone blows up in Kagami’s wake is not worth the hassle. 

 

He mindlessly pokes at the marinated pigeon filled steamed buns Kagami had forced upon him before getting chased out by dire threat of Hikaku - thyme and oregano perfume the room with the promise of Air and Spring around the corner, brilliant and strong against the preserved lemon rind emanating from where he had picked ragged holes through the glossy dough shell. There’s only a finite number of extant buildings that Madara knows might even begin to address what he envisions for the future, places that suit his taste and Tobirama’s, and that number is laughably small once constrained to geographic location preferences and price range. It’s not impossible to find, perhaps, but implausible overall.

 

More often than not the ticking timeline keeps him awake at night. A little over ten months remain, ten months that are flashing by entirely too quickly. Madara can feel the edge of desperation approaching rapidly, something that is entirely too rabbit fast for him to begin to admit, even to himself. Still, his less than stellar sleep hygiene must be apparent for all to see, given the mass concern Madara is inundated with from all corners. Hashi starts scheduling redundant lunch meetings and sending him looks of wide eyed consternation over shitty take-out Hi no Kuni lo mein, but Madara refuses to be swayed by clear and unrepentant manipulation. Not for shitty lo mein, Fire God's blessed ashes, Madara has  _ standards _ .  _ Mito’s _ spicy tofu lo mein on the other hand.... 

 

Unfortunately, Madara has been Four blessed (or thrice damned, depending on who is telling) with scheming family and friends who probably have a group chat to conspire in, because three lunch meetings of ignoring Hashi “Puppy Eyes On Command” Senju suddenly and dramatically escalate to getting called to Hashi’s place at five in the afternoon on paper thin pretenses and end with Izuna ambushing him outside Konoha. The entire ignominious affair climaxes with Madara getting taken out by a flying tackle courtesy of Hashi from out of the blackberry bush while trying to dodge a whirling mid-air split from Izuna.

 

Madara didn't even know his only brother could  _ do _ acrobatics like that, Fire God's  _ flaming balls _ . Konoha doesn't help, doing the house-equivalent of laughing their ass off. Foundations off? Fuck fire and brimstone, he better not have gotten concussed from forcible introduction to paving stone. He glares at his impentinent brother and similarly unashamed brother from another mother from the opposite side of Mito’s antique Uzushio dining room table to no apparent effect. Damn them both and then some, Madara did not need their misplaced busybody-ing right now. 

 

“Now. Since we finally have your undivided attention, Mada, let’s review a short list of places we think you should check out,” Hashi smiles cheerfully yet emptily at him, and Izuna pulls out a sheaf of papers that are far too numerous to actually be feasible to review in one night. 

 

In shorter news: a complete and utter waste of Madara’s steadily wasting time,  _ fucking Fire God and all the Small Lords _ . His irritation boils over, and his rips the pristine printed pages from his brother’s hands. A steady, calming breath - in four counts, hold five, out seven - then he skims over the first. “Log and timber cabin? We’re not lumberjacks.” He’s got  _ fire magic _ , Fire God’s sake. And Tobirama  _ hates _ the idea of camping. He sends the paper up in a puff of fire and ash over the granite tiles, then moves on. He’ll face Mito’s wrath later even as Konoha screeches and pummels him mentally for tossing ash around its pristine floors, “ _ Prairie School _ ? I know Hi no Kuni doesn’t see much snow, but a flat roof is a disaster waiting to happen with the amount of rain we get.”

 

Another gout of flame. The pile of ash grows “Is this a hobbit house? Did you even look at the ceiling heights?” Madara ignores the whispered conversation about the fact he knows what a hobbit even is in favor of setting fire to the property listing. “And a fully contemporary house. Yes. Good. Because we  _ love  _ the completely impractical contemporary style you have to have  _ everything _ match to.” Once more into the fire. 

 

“And a cookie-cutter brick and mortar that looks identical to the houses all around it. Seriously?” Another fed to the flame. “We both hate townhouses - no privacy.” Another whoosh of flame. “Here’s a place that’s about four hours too far away from civilization. Where we both work.” And a farm. Who the flaming  _ fuck _ thought either of them were agriculturalists, or so inclined? The pile of ash glowed faintly red, no time to cool between each additional layer added. “An Earth God floorplan, really?” Because getting permissions to put a new addition - even to add a small built in house shrine, which Earth God homes tended to lack - in a historic house is a pain and a half. Another lick of smoke dissipates, another listing crumbles.

 

“This one hasn’t had a renovation in over fifty years, no one wants to another mass fixer upper.” Whoosh, ash and smoke. “Yeah, sure, let’s live on a confluence of non-harmonious leylines. Let’s just blow up every other night at complete random, shall we?” Another group of papers bite the dust. “70s space age design, Tobirama hated those. This one is listed as ‘off the grid’, and doesn’t have indoor plumbing. 1000 square foot cottage is smaller than our current apartment, why would we even downsize like that for several thousand ryo more.” 

 

Madara stares at the steadily sweating culprits across from him. “Tell me, did you even think about....  _ anything _ when you pulled these off the internet?” He smacks the heavily diminished pile on the ground in disgust, not even bothering to set it on fire. “I’ve been over everything even remotely close to what might be a possibility that could even probably meet our wants and needs, and I’ve got nothing. This,” Madara gestures broadly, hands emphatic, “is a waste of my time.” 

 

He winces at the tone of that last line, in unconscious sync with Hashi even as it sets spark to the tinder that is Izuna’s easily lit temper. Konoha flinches and hunkers down, projecting still and silent “ _ I am not here please leave a message”  _ in preparation of the fall out. “I’m sorry, Most Honorable Older Brother. Perhaps it was overstepping the limits of acceptable propriety to try and get you moving since you have a deadline, so I most humbly and respectfully beg your forgiveness for my apparently numerous and unforgivable transgressions on your most  _ sanctimonious _ decision to  _ do nothing _ .” Izuna slams away from the table abruptly, the sarcasm still cyanide sweet heavy in the air. “If you’re going to be this much of a picky asshole, might as well just build a place from scratch yourself!” With that, Izuna storms out and lets Nawaki in in his wake. 

 

“Hi Dad, hi Uncle Madara, I’m home!” Nawaki pauses where he’s dropping a heavy gym bag by the door to the laundry room. “So, was all that about the whole ‘Uncle Madara doesn’t know how to pine right, time to stage an intervention’ thing? ‘Cause Uncle Izuna has a point. Uncle Tobirama is picky. And so is Uncle Madara. How they even managed an apartment to move into together is a miracle.”

 

Apparently Hashi could Teleport these days given the way he appeared to slap a hand over his second-born’s mouth before the grave could get dug any deeper. “Ahahaha, plan? What plan there was precisely zero plan. Nawaki, you silly child you, go do your laundry before your mother gets home.” Konoha squawks in protest at the rough treatment as Hashi kicks open the laundry room door and bodily throws Nawaki through to door frame to Nawaki’s squawked disapproval. “But he has a point. Building new would be easier if you can’t find anything you like on the market.” 

 

Building something from scratch was an idea Madara had toyed with from time to time, but had shied away from each time with good reason. “It’s costly and time consuming to build a new construction. Not to mention the permits and land and contractors and all of the other associated issues going into building something from scratch.” He sighs heavily and picks up the discarded sheaf of paper. “I need to get going, I have budget meetings scheduled for all of tomorrow.”

 

Hashi winces sympathetically this time, and bustles over to the fridge and starts pulling a variety of tupperware from the various stacks occupying the interior. “Mada, neither Izuna nor I are trying to say you have to commit to something today. Just that you need to keep an open mind, get some plans and ideas put together.” Hashi pulls out the designated “Send home with Madara” tote and bundles the stuffed containers inside - why Hashi thought Madara is incapable of cooking for himself despite all evidence to the contrary was a mystery, though Madara liked to chalk it up to the fact that Hashi had tendencies towards worrying unnecessarily - before shuffling around to pull out another stack of papers, considerably thinner and more detailed. “Those are the listings me and Izuna went over, the ones that might be much better suited to you and Tobirama. A few are just plots of land, but they’re well under market value and will probably sell pretty quickly. Just, look over them and think about it, okay?” 

 

Honestly, Madara is more concerned there  _ was _ a decoy list than anything. Well, half concerned. Partially concerned. Predominantly impressed, really. Izuna and Hashi barely got along at baseline, that they'd work together was touching something soft and squishy in his heart. Madara looks at the topmost listing. In bold all caps, underlined twice, were the words “Revolving waterbed in the master bedroom! Mirrored ceilings!! Bathtubs big enough for three!!!” Faintly, Madara can hear Konoha cackling even as his own face flushes. 

 

_ Thrice damned Twelve Hells _ , Izuna and Hashi are never allowed to collaborate on anything again.

 

* * *

 

_ “Holy Four on their Thrones.” Madara reflexively stamps on the nonexistent brakes as he clings to the “Oh, Sage!” handle in the passenger seat of Tobirama’s car. “How did you ever get your driving license?!” They were going into the corner too fast, way too fast. He wants to close his eyes so his last glimpse of life wouldn’t be him hurtling into a powerline pole, but apparently his nerves weren’t responding as they sped into a sharp left no one sane would attempt.  _

 

_ “Driving isn’t difficult.” Tobirama looks over, brow furrowed perplexed, and Madara can feel his heart skip a beat. _

 

_ “Don’t take your eyes off the road!” Fire God’s Flame, he’s screeching in a register only audible to dogs. Would now be a good time to start praying for his eternal soul? Did the Lady of Death even accept pre-emptive prayers for the dead if the person doing the praying was praying for themself? Was that even allowed?  _

 

_ “You’re turning purple, are you breathing correctly? Madara?” They’re pulling up to the Natural History Museum, thank the Four. He can feel his beleaguered heart slowing down, no longer racing like this was a final Olympic sprint, gold medal on the line.  _

 

_ Madara takes a few deep, gasping breaths, each one less of a struggle than the last, “Someone needs to revoke your license.” If his glare isn't up to full strength, then its entirely not his fault.  _

 

_ A slim eyebrow lifts, amusement and challenge at once. “Oh? And who would be the one to do that?” They both know the answer to that, and the inherent irony therein. “Come on Madara. Kagami worked very hard on this installation, and we both know we have to make disparaging and scathing commentary about it.” Because there's no statute of limitations on payback, and they have several lifetimes worth apiece to cash in.  _

 

_ He takes the hand that's been conspicuously wrapped over his pulse and laces their fingers together. “Why is it that Kagami always ends up a part of our dates?”  _

 

* * *

 

 

He’s halfway back to their apartment with fresh groceries, the blinding rain chilling even against Madara’s attempts to warm himself from within, when his phone rings. Aunt Mamiko’s number flashes up on his dashboard computer screen, and if it weren’t for the fact that Madara knew that if he didn’t pick up Aunt Mamiko would go and pester his dad, he would have let it go to voicemail. 

 

“Uchiha Madara speaking.”

 

“Madara, well met.” As always, her voice is an entire octave too high, probably all but shouting down the receiver. Not that he can tell, over the sound of the driving rain lashing against the windows. As per usual, she forges ahead without waiting for him to return the greeting. “ Have you thought anymore about the Clan House issue?” 

 

For a moment, Madara is terrified - Kōjin hadn’t said anything about an issue, much less one that everyone else in the Clan knew about but him - but Aunt Mamiko keeps bulldozing on as if he hadn’t inhaled his heart into his throat audibly. “Of course you haven’t. You’d be perfectly content keeping your family on the couch or air mattress until someone else settled the issue.”

 

Oh, that issue. Fuck fire and brimstone. “Aunt Mamiko, well met. If you can recall the last Clan meeting - .”

 

“Boy, I remember that you were too busy staring out the window acting lovelorn than paying attention.” Her voice is whip crack sharp and stinging, and Madara knows a chastisement that’s steps away from going over his head to his parents when he hears it. “I know that the Clan has its collective head doing a ostrich, Air God bless them with brains, but they’re going to keep avoiding the issue until someone takes responsibility. You and I know the only people who are even capable of taking charge of this project are me and you.” The problem with Aunt Mamiko is that she had the uncanny ability to never be wrong, even if she had the tact of an elephant attempting to perform ballet in saying it. 

 

Fire God’s eternal flame, Madara did not want to deal with this right now. “Aunt Mamiko, there’s other things that have to go into consideration of - .”

 

A derisive cackle, “You mean the same old bullshit that everyone else goes on about? Small Lords boy, get it together. It’s is a  _ Clan House _ , not a compound like those Hyuuga Airheads. You just need the room and the bathrooms. The rest is just window dressing.” She inhales deeply, then continues. “Has any one of our smoke-for-brains relatives come to you with a preference for the damn building? Cause I have a few.”

 

Madara thinks he can feel sweat forming, or is that the rain dripping out of his hair, he can’t tell. He’s praying for mercy from whomever will listen - Aunt Mamiko likes storybook houses, and frankly it might work for her and Uncle Teru and their five cats, but it’s not particularly suited for much else. Especially not hosting large numbers of people easily. Madara suspects that was quite the point of Aunt Mamiko and Uncle Teru buying the place, but can’t fault them for it. Much. Their house hated having the masons over to fix it’s inevitably, perpetually crumbling stonework, and was constantly a headache and a half to coax into compliance. 

 

Some God or Spirit must Hear him, because his dashboard computer alerts him to another call. A quick glance tells him everything he needs to know. “Aunt Mamiko, I’m so sorry, but I have another call coming in that I have to take. I’ll be sure to think very hard about what you’ve said - “

 

“Shut up with the hot air and go talk to your boyfriend, Fire God’s  _ flaming balls _ . Tell him I said hello.” She hangs up with nary a bye-your-leave, but that was Aunt Mamiko. That Aunt Mamiko is Great Uncle Daiki’s child is readily apparent to anyone who had ever met them, their bluntness came in the same flavor. Madara could appreciate that about a person, especially since their other relatives were more likely to passive aggressively duck conflict of any kind. Which is how they got into the whole Clan House situation in the first place, Fire God’s  _ balls _ \- Madara cuts off his own mental rambling when his phone rings again, insistent. Right, better things.

 

Madara hit the button to accept Tobirama’s call and took the turn onto their apartment complex’s street. “Well met Tobirama.”

 

“Well met Madara.” Immediately, Madara catalogues the change in Tobirama’s voice, tired but uplifted, happy if worn. “I got your ...  _ generous _ care package. Thank you for the extra tea. How have you been?” Anyone else, and the formality would be awkward, the stress on “generous” sarcastic and demeaning, but Madara can hear the genuine care Tobirama is using, in his words and soft even cadence of the syllables as they form across the phone line.  

 

“I’m ...well. Getting pounded by cases, and relatives, and rain.” At Tobirama’s snicker - uncalled for, Madara would never be so crass! - Madara can’t help let his own smile unfurl. There’s something about the way his blood  _ sings _ , something that only comes out in rare instances. “You? How are you?” 

 

Tobirama speaks then, of the mundane and the bizarre and the hilarious of small hamlet life. His voice is animated and so close, Madara is sure he can reach out and touch the liquid silk of it, taste it behind his teeth if he tried. He maneuvers the car into the parking garage, and slides into the nearest empty spot. The engine idles, but turning it off would mean having to pick up his phone and talk, not close his eyes and pretend Tobirama is in the passenger seat right next to him, that the subtle audio tinny-ness of having him on speaker is gone.

 

All too soon, the ritual of sharing their days has been exhausted, and silence falls. Madara missed this too, in a different familiar ache, the full comforting silences of being alone together. “They had artichokes on sale at the market the other day. I made twice fried artichokes, the squashed flat kind. You’re right, they taste better with balsamic vinegar.” 

 

Tobirama huffs, pleased, “They always taste better with balsamic vinegar.” He’s silent a moment and the silence is pregnant but warm. Madara could leave it as is until one of them thought of whatever pressing task needed to happen, but the thought of going back to being himself as one is gripping in it’s terror. 

 

“Aunt Mamiko wants the next Clan House to be a storybook house.” Madara doesn’t know why that slipped out, why that was the sentence that slipped out of his mouth, instead of the quintillions of other things that could be discussed. 

 

“Aunt Mamiko wants everything to be out of a storybook,” Tobirama points out pragmatically, “Her penchant for whimsical fairy tale style really ought to be a dead giveaway.” A beat, then, curious, “Are they pushing for a Clan House again?”

 

Madara catches himself nodding midway through the action, as if that will help in a phone conversation, “Yeah. There was more more pushing it back at the last Clan Meet, but Aunt Mamiko is insistent. You cut her off right before she could get started, so thank you for that.” 

 

“I’m sure I’ll hear all about it from her shortly.” Wry and dry, humorous and snarky, more than prepared to deal with Aunt Mamiko. A few of Madara’s favorite things. “And everyone else? How are they?” Tobirama’s tone is still light, still conversational, but Madara knows better, knows the slight edge that is concern, that is protector and supporter and iron and moonless night and deep water dark for those who cross him. Something in him goes fluid and jubilant, preening and delighted, that this is whom he is mentioned with in the same breath. 

 

“Nawaki is back from tour and in school, Tsunade is being an unholy terror and saving peoples lives after she bashes their skulls in for stupidity, Hashi is being Hashi and Mito is being terrifying.” Madara ticks them off, their tangential important people as he thinks of them. “Izuna and Itama are up to something, and Kawarama is.... Doing Kawarama things, nominally with Touka so entirely suspect on both counts. Mom and Dad are fine, and I’ll be visiting your mother  Saturday to check on her. I bought some blackberries, and I’ll bring some other foods so she won’t have to cook for the week.” 

 

“Mother is perfectly able to -,” a crash on Tobirama’s end of the line. The virulent blue streak that cuts through the background is incredibly creative, Madara makes note of some of the more colorful ones. There's the scratch and static of the receiver being held against fabric, moving quickly back and forth, then Tobirama is back on the line. “Apologies, Orochimaru tripped.” 

 

“And that's cause for concern?” The reaction is disproportionate to the cause by several measures; Orochimaru isn't known for clumsiness but it happens to everyone at some point. Especially when the person is question is as...  _ gangly _ as Orochimaru. 

 

The silence is damning, before Tobirama speaks. “It is, after a fashion; there was a strange accident recently. And strange crimes and harassment happening in town. Everyone suspects bored teenagers, but....” He trails off, the edge of something like suspicion half-formed in the 

 

Bored teenagers always spelled trouble, no matter the locale. “It's better to be safe than sorry,” Madara finishes. The nascent worry that had tied itself up in his guts loosens - teens, nominally, are usually just hooligans and will be dealt with quickly. 

 

“Whomever the culprit is, or are, they’ve defaced some lovely buildings. I wish you could see them, it’s like something out of a High Fantasy Elf Wood.” A likely architectural marvel, then, though not unheard of in the denser forests with their plethora of wood. 

 

“Is this you throwing your two ryo in about what you think the next Clan House should look like?” The tease is blatantly fond, unfairly so and Madara has never before been so betrayed in his  _ life _ . Maybe drowning himself in the rain would be worth it.

 

Madara can tell Tobirama is about to say something delightfully scathing and witty by the barely concealed inhale, sharp but curled like a smile. “Having that much wood and living tree next to you fire-breathers - .”

 

“Professor Senju, get off the phone with your boyfriend, we have to be up in 4 hours!” Orochimaru’s voice is the same muffled susurrus of grain being sifted through fingers, rattle-y and bone dry coated in stinging irritation even at a distance. Tobirama must mute the line, because Madara hears nothing for a long stretch, then a return.

 

Aggrieved and sorry, “Orochimaru makes a unfortunate but true point. And it’s late; you still have groceries to put away and then eat and bathe and sleep.”  

 

Some part of Madara balks at the reminder time exists, that he has things outside this bubble to do. He doesn’t want to go back and face the stark grey of their apartment, doesn’t want to hang up. But it is necessary, he’s got milk and eggs in the backseat, and a night of cooking ahead. “I’ll let you go then, since you have to be up early. Be safe. Waves carry you safely, Tobirama.” Paltry ash and dust, a mouthful of chalk and salt sticking to everything desert dry and parched. 

 

“We’ll be safe enough; just have to check some unusual readings on a few sensors,” Tobirama, uncharacteristically pauses, weighing, before softly, “And may the tides carry me back home.”

 

The line clicks dead, and Madara is left with the sound of rain hitting the street outside and the ringing of his thoughts.

 

* * *

 

_ The wooden floors creak pleasantly, worn and accustomed to use and singing welcome sweet and low. The air is filled with dust motes, drifting like golden currents where the sun shines through the fully opened shoji doors. The engawa circling the house, sliding walls and shutters removed to be a veranda opening onto the garden, however, is not so idyllic. The wood had seen several years of not being cared for properly, some pieces warped and others cracked and flaking away entirely, and the rest of the house shows similar states of disrepair. The more “modern” - if they could even be termed as such - amenities and hardware in the space were at least a decade old. Their real estate agent, thankfully, had left Tobirama and he to have a further perusal at their leisure, after doing her chipper yet straightforward utmost to upsell the property despite it's clearly visibly flaws and their slowly degenerating tempers with one another. They both stared out at the traditional koi pond dominating the backyard, letting the fading sunlight gild the scene and imbue them with a bit of its tranquility. _

 

_ “Pity about the state of this place,” Tobirama sighs heavily, earlier irritation at a quote unquote cozy sprawling Kusa style ranch fading, “Izuna mentioned that the Uchiha were looking for a Clan Home here near the city.”  _

 

_ He instinctively stamps down the surprise welling up that Tobirama had even remembered, had even brought it up. It must have showed anyways. “Don't give me that look, of course I'd remember. You've been having various relatives stay with you for far longer than I can remember, and you've remembered far less important things about my family.”  _

 

_ Madara concedes the point, though his patience had frayed enough over the last five houses they'd viewed that he wants to argue about the importance of attending Clan votes or going to help out Clan Elders. Instead he breathes in and kept his eyes of the back garden. The thought that the Uchiha should get a new Clan house in the area was an idea under passive, idle, constant consideration by the Clan at large, given the number of Clan members living in and around the capital, and the secondary number that came frequently for school or business or just visits. The need for a place that was large enough to host everyone for for the minor holidays, among the regular meetings and celebrations, plus hosting visiting relatives, was immense, but discussion of the topic was usually fraught enough that it was tabled for another date.  _

 

_ Frankly the whole situation might be fine to push off for a few more years, but. There was a small but vocal general discontent among certain generations that the Senju Clan House in the capital was big enough to house 20 grown adults with room to spare, and yet Uchiha had to rely on their relatives having a spare bedroom or couch. Easily, Madara could imagine his more local relatives here, the traditional set up of the building they were in was conducive to hosting large gatherings. Madara sighs as well, “But the termites....”  _

 

_ “But the termites,” Tobirama agrees. “Too large a problem to overlook.” The termites that the house had mournfully admitted to when Madara had said hello and complemented its beauty, termites that had eaten through nearly every piece of wood in the place. And in a building made of wood, there was not an insignificant amount to infest. It would cost more than the place was worth to try and remove the termites, and then make the structure sound for living in, if even possible without having to reconstruct the whole structure. _

 

_ Madara knew that it was ever logical, ever practical Tobirama speaking, and not the part of Tobirama that had looked with wonder at the still crisp screen carvings and the simple elegance of the spaces unencumbered by permanent furniture and wholly mutable to whim and fancy. A strange contradiction to his forthright and solid logic and scientific rigor, but it fit. Places that lacked the frill or decorative artifice of modern houses that needed to be filled with items. A place to live where everything one surveyed was precisely what one saw and yet still filled with limitless potential. Comfortable to them both, a place Madara could see them living and growing together. _

 

_ More of a reaction than any other potential place they'd seen yet, since they had yet to agree on liking a listing much less agree on anything significant about a place. “I’m sure the Uchiha Clan is willing to foot the bill if we're willing and able to bring this place up to standards.” An olive branch and an honest offer made in good faith, an ache and reparation to the rift stewing. _

 

_ “Even with your family supplying the funds, neither you nor I have the time to schedule and plan the - or any - renovation, much less find capable contractors and oversee the work. Practically speaking, the job is too much even with our not inconsiderable tenacities put together.” Reverently, carefully, wistfully, Tobirama lays a hand against one of the pillars framing the engawa. “A true tragedy.”   _

 

* * *

 

Madara surfaces from the dredges of sleep as if from a fugue to the screaming of his alarm, everything sharp and clear even as it simultaneously all feels like the muggy haze of cotton wool dream clouding the edges of his mind. Nerves over sensitive against the unholy screeching, like peeling back the bandages after being blinded, neurons firing and regaining the dormant knowledge of how they were supposed to function. Like he’s been drained of energy instead of rejuvenated by sleep, sleep sore and aching. Gingerly, he extracts himself from his bed, trying and failing to muster the will to live. Damn his subconscious, damn it to the Twelve Hells and back. Subtle it is not. 

 

Still, Madara can't deny the fact that his unconscious mind has a point, even if that point is more sledgehammer heavy than scalpel delicate in delivery. The Uchiha have been looking to rebuild the Clan House for the capital after the last one had met an untimely end via typhoon force winds. Nothing has ever moved forward beyond the general consensus that building a new Clan House had to be done, even at the last Clan Meet over the holidays, since precisely no one sane or even mildly trustworthy wanted to head the undertaking of building such an estate. And Tobirama and he had both liked, if not outright loved the limitless, mutable, and simple elegance of the traditional style home, for all that it was unfeasible at the time to purchase. 

 

Which subsequently means Izuna and Hashi were onto something last night,  _ Fire God’s Eternal Flame _ . Madara hates when they have a point, individually they became insufferable and Four knows what's going to happen when they're jointly smug. After yesterday, Madara knows who he needs to call first.

 

“Zu-zu, I need your help.”

 

* * *

 

_ Madara’s knees were aching, unused to the awkward and repetitious cycle of standing and kneeling that had no true rhyme or reason beyond the fact the others in the hall seemed to know instinctively what to do at each part of the service. From the way Mito and Tobirama shifted subtly, the way Nawaki had outright moved to lean on the pew in front of them, Madara could tell he wasn't the only one who was discomforted by the abuse of his knees for so long. Hashi, at the end of the row, was straight backed and steady, but on Madara's other side, Kawarama and Itama were flagging. It was easy to tell who were regulars at Earth God Halls, beyond the fact they weren't gawking at the high ribbed vaulting raising the ceiling into a shadowy canopy above the clerestory, the arches that made organic curves out of harsh stone, and the leaded glass windows in the rainbow of colors dancing through the aisles and across the nave.  _

 

_ Still, Madara kept his head facing forward towards where the priest was standing at the crossing of the transept, nave, and apse, halo’d by light. Do not look across the central aisle, do not even twitch your eye that way, he scolded himself. The ramrod straight spine of Butsuma Senju dominated the corner of his peripheral vision, tense and stern exuding from the very strict alignment of his elbows and shoulders. The man was clearly unhappy, though if it was his regular recalcitrant nature or a new brand of displeasure was yet to be determined. _

 

_ One moon pale hand slowly crept over and fisted itself over clutching Madara’s right hand. More people Madara recognized as distant Senju relatives were trekking up the center nave, to bow at the altar and the six visible radiating chapels behind the altar, the statue of the Earth God towering above imposingly and then bob a greeting at Butsuma Senju before sliding into place on a pew. The quick clench and release warning for what is (hopefully, for the Water God’s mercy, Madara is  _ begging _ ) the final round of standing and singing. Or not in Madara’s case - he has it on good authority he’s particularly tone deaf and sounds like someone dying of smoke inhalation. _

 

_ Madara is lucky - the priest runs through the final hymn, and the closing prayer to the Earth God and the Six Knights in their chapels and then rings the taiko to close the service. The faithful line up to be dusted with dirt, and to leave small pebbles and prayers at the base of the statues circling the apse. Knight Plant has been bowed to, Knights Soil and Stone have passed to a quiet moment of prayer, and the empty chapel directly behind the Earth God for Grave is coming up when Tobirama speaks lowly into his ear. “The priest will offer a sip of blood wine here. Don’t take it.”  _

 

_ Blood wine is - was - rarely used in any ceremony and only for the most... conservative of individuals. Hashi is a few persons ahead of them, but even he politely refuses the offered drink - no one is interested in pledging sole allegiance and dedication here today, but it is certainly a telling move that Butsuma has it here at all. Madara quietly finishes his offerings and words of thanksgiving at the chapels and at the foot of the statue and follows Tobirama out and back to his car.   _

 

_ The engine starts with a click, and the mood is rough and barbed, irritation crackling like lightning around Madara’s head, and stiffening the set of Tobirama’s shoulders, tension bright and loud. Finally, Tobirama breaks the silence as they bounce over the gravel driveway onto the freeway. “Father commissioned a special mass for his birthday.” A moment, then, “I’m sorry, I didn’t think he’d...” A noise of frustration, something that promises blood. “Brother has been trying to plan a coup.” _

 

_ Madara can feel himself jerk in a way that has abso-fucking-lutely nothing to do with the way Tobirama corners onto the country mansion that serves as the main Senju Clan House. “Is this because Butsuma hates me.” Less a question and more a statement - Butsuma has made no bones about the fact he does not particularly like a Uchiha as the person his second eldest has gotten involved with, even if said Uchiha is someone he’s known since childhood. At least Madara’s dad has the courtesy to keep his pique behind closed doors, Butsuma has no such compunction when confronted with the issue, no matter that the rest of the Senju chafed openly at his boorishness.  _

 

_ A harsh noise of disgust and negation, “Father hates anything that isn’t to his exacting standards. He hates Mito since she’s an immigrant.” Madara thinks that over, then opens his mouth to question, since that - “Yes, Mother is an immigrant too. Everyone tries not to think too hard about it.” He closes his mouth. “This was more about forcing people to openly declare sides, since Brother is trying to usurp Father as Clan Head.” _

 

_ Ah. Power Plays at temple. Technically a classic, but also one that fell out of fashion when Hi no Kuni still had emperors and when the priests got fed up of duels to the death staining the floors. The temporal dyssynchrony is furious, even as they jostle down the gravel driveway to the Clan House. “I’ll do my best to avoid him.” As much as Madara can promise, though it will probably not work by dint of Butsuma being already irritated and Madara being an easy target as a guest/ friend of the family Butsuma knows all too well. Tobirama’s frustration shows easily, tight at the mouth and eyes in a way that telegraphs his simmering temper.  _

 

_ “Don’t hesitate to throw Brother to the hounds if it comes to it.” Fire God’s Eternal Flame, please let it not get that bad, Madara prays fervently. They park in the round about, and give the valet the keys to take the car to park, then face the milling crowds of Senju ostensibly enjoying a barbecue.  _

 

_ It’s sheer pandemonium the moment Madara is alone - Tobirama having disappeared to somewhere, probably to find the drinks table for a stiff one - with random Senju greeting him and shaking his hand and talking about inanities Madara doesn’t have the wherewithal to comprehend. Should he care that Aiko - whomever that is - decided to get her ears pierced? Is it scandalous Great Grandmother is wearing a color today and not white? Why can’t Senju act like normal people and keep conversation on mutually understood topics, like the weather, or food, or maybe how Four forsaken awful traffic has gotten. Fire God’s flaming balls, he’s starting to understand how a cornered injured animal feels. No sooner than he makes paltry excuses to one individual than another pops up and ensnares him in conversation.  _

 

_ Maybe his family is right and Senju are just absolutely stark raving mad. He’s regretting everything ever. He’s making polite demurrals to seeing an old man’s vintage moralizing propaganda - which Madara suspects are vintage pin up photos, and which he would very much not like to see -  when he turns around and comes face to face with the one person he absolutely did not want to see today. Small Lords of Ash and Smoke preserve him. “Hello Mr. Senju sir, Happy Birthday.”  _

 

_ “Madara.” And great, that’s where Tobirama learned that glare from. Madara is never telling him that on penalty of death. “So you did show up after all.” The man ignores Madara’s outstretched hand, and Madara takes the hint and drops it. Point to Butsuma, there’s no point in trying formality when you’ve been aware of each other tangentially for several decades. “And Tobirama. Where has he gone off to.”  _

 

_ The tang of hostility isn’t even hidden, and Madara is well aware that the nearest persons to them are standing stock still. “Last I saw, he was headed to greet you and Mrs. Senju.” Not a complete lie, since they were standing catty-corner to the bar, but not the whole truth.  _

 

_ Butsuma has the uncanny ability to look like he’s taking the measure of a person always. Usually for their coffin. Madara is feeling the Lady of Death’s fingers on his coffin, without a doubt. “Walk with me Madara.” Oh good, not a suggestion. Butsuma walks off towards where a grill is smoking awfully, and Madara follows in his wake as people crowding the backyard pause and murmur felicitations and well wishes. “Do you see all this? Everyone happy, in order, in line?” Butsuma doesn’t pause to let Madara get a word in, and Madara wisely keeps his mouth shut. “That’s because I steer the Clan with a firm hand. And whatever nonsense Hashirama has gotten into his head with you and Tobirama  _ dating _ ,” the word comes out like something filthy and wrong, sneered like something beneath Butsuma’s dignity, “It’s frankly insulting. And it’s causing others to think they can give insult without repercussion.”  _

 

_ Which explains the Senju who came late to the service, and the blood wine. Madara knew Butsuma had had to take control of a fractious Senju Clan upon the death of his mother, had to deal with numerous attempts to undermine his authority, and it showed. But. “Why are you telling me this, sir.” Madara let every year of his long slog up the ranks of the police department show, the steel of his voice sure and firm.  _

 

_ Another considering look. “You’re not stupid Madara. Far from it. I may not like you, but you keep Tobirama happy, and more importantly  _ safe _ from running headlong into foolish Theoretical Magic. I can respect that. What I can’t respect is an outsider from a Clan that has a history of .... _ friction _ with mine trying to usurp me. And if I need to get rid of you to squash that issue, no matter how happy you make my son, then so be it.” He’s interrupted by a harsh coughing fit, doubled over and wheezing for breath, and Madara is the only one close enough to do anything. _

 

_ He swallows the iron taste of rage and passes the man his handkerchief even as he guides the struggling figure to a hastily vacated chair. Tries not to start when the cotton square comes away bloody. Disparate pieces click in Madara’s head, things Hashirama has mentioned. A tight smile and a murmur for water to a hovering young girl - probably dispatched to take care of the Clan Head instead of the guest - gets them alone again. Madara drops the pretenses, “Look, Butsuma, with all due respect, I think you and I both know that you’re not in the best of health.” The scathing glare Madara gets seems out of place coming from brown eyes and tan skin instead of ruby red and snow white, but he takes the meaning, “Fine, lung cancer, late stage if I’m not mistaken. Mrs. Senju did always tell you to quit smoking, and look at the state you’re in. Hashi, Four bless him, may act dumber than a sack of rocks from Iwa but he’s probably noticed your health is down the shitter. And for all that you’re an awful person he loves you and is trying to reduce your stress. You won’t give it up, he’ll take it with a fight you’re going to lose.” The tightening of Butsuma’s eyes is venomous, honestly Madara is going to have nightmares about how much Tobirama acts like his father. “You  _ are _ going to lose. You think anyone but the oldest Senju back you? Think again. Most everyone loves Hashi, and those that don’t won’t be around for much longer. And frankly, I don’t care that you think you can break Tobirama and I up. You know those Uchiha myths?  _ They’re true _.” _

 

_ Madara sees the comprehension in Bustuma’s eyes, even as the gentle heat Madara’s been radiating from his palm in steady circles around the man’s back finally eases the strangling clench of cough. “You’re a smart man Butsuma Senju, and you know good advice when you hear it. Give Hashi the damn position as Clan Head, and settle down to a quiet and restful however long you have left and you might have family at your deathbed to mourn you. And leave Tobirama and my relationship out of whatever it is you think you need to do, or you will not like what happens.”  _

 

_ Mrs. Senju, Four bless her, bustles up in a flurry quietly trailed by Mito and Tsunade as dutiful daughter-in-law and granddaughter-slash-doctor. Madara stands and greets the woman respectfully and endures her pinching his cheek fondly, before ducking away. Tobirama meets him further into the well-manicured garden, beers in his hand dripping condensation as he sits on one of the benches hidden deep in the ostentatious maze the Senju have for Air God knows why. “So you just ripped my father a new one and threatened him with heavenly fire. In front of the entire family, since I would bet my tenure on the fact everyone nearby was eavesdropping. I’d say this meet the family is a resounding success.” _

 

_ Madara can hear the subtle tease in Tobirama’s voice, but he still buries his head in his hands to hide the furious rush of blood across his face. Oh right, good first impressions. He was supposed to be making those. Or something. Fire God’s flaming  _ balls _.  _

 

_ He hears Tobirama failing to hide his laughter, but what does Madara care? He’s trying to bargain with the Earth God to have the ground swallow him whole here and now - who cares that he’s not dead anyways? A warm body curls next to his, still shaking with barely suppressed vibration, “At least Father won’t be messing with you anytime soon. And, it could be worse, my dastardly relations could be forcing you to dance.”  _

 

* * *

 

Izuna, best brother that he is, forgives him with, and Madara quotes, “great benevolence and kind-hearted sympathy for your plight,” and also deigns to come with Madara to the family shrine out by the Nanaka River. Izuna also somehow bribed Kagami to get a picnic basket filled with Madara's favorites, so Izuna is forgiven his theatrics in favor of the grilled fish and eggplant sandwich with Madara’s name on it. 

 

The shrine, as expected, is old, dusty, and more like a thieving archaeologist’s wet dream than it ought to be. Madara can already feel his sinuses inflaming and nasal passages congesting, Fire God’s blessed ashes. His eyes sting, for all that he took anti-allergy pills like candy the whole drive here. Part of him aches for Tobirama to be here, to be able to point out the bits and pieces of Uchiha history that litter the space in jumbled piles and their stories, to hear Tobirama huff in annoyance after the third or so time discovering there is no rhyme or reason to the piles and sort the place according to something absolutely functional and logical and wholey arcane in the minutiae. Pressgang the nearest warm bodies as slave labor to set the Shrine storerooms to some semblance of order and sensible archiving. It aches something fierce and lonely, happy bittersweet, digs in deep and refuses to unclench it’s vice-tight grip around his chest.

 

“Come on Mada, the right stuff should be over here.” Izuna steers him by the shoulders like Madara is particularly recalcitrant and needs directing, ignoring all objections to being manhandled. Madara  _ knew _ he should have insisted upon returning Izuna as an infant. Still, unerringly Izuna has found what ought to be the right documents. Maybe. 

 

With a defeated sigh, Madara mentally prepares himself for several hours of squinting at old pages and fading ink to figure out what the topic of each file is, and if it’s relevant. Fire God’s  _ balls _ . Then he puts together a stack of coarsely bound files and books and hauls them to the densely blanketed and pillowed “research corner” someone had set up with a low table and lights. Unconsciously, his mouth quirks up at the corner, and he thinks of how much he would be chided by Tobirama for thinking this even began to pass muster for research. 

 

Nostalgia hits hard as the strong old book smell wafts up from the pages, of long evenings curled together with Tobirama reading this and that cocooned in the scent of paper and ink and that smell that is uniquely age. This particular book doesn’t seem to be entirely useful to their present endeavor, since Madara isn’t interested in general magic practices - meditation, katas, how-to guides to various spiritual powers like astral projection or scrying - but the portion about seals seems like a strong contender for something useful. Madara makes a careful note on his paper of the book and the section that is important then continues on. 

 

He makes it through seven notebooks full of the family tree all the way back to the very start of the Uchiha Clan before Izuna calls a break for lunch. His eyes are tired, dry, and sore, but they’re not even halfway through the pile they started with. He successfully wrangles his sandwich from Izuna, as well a the cute apple bunnies Kagami chopped. Apples. Kagami was not subtle. 

 

A few more old books of seals - each more complex than the last, Madara would need to ask Mito to help translate some since whomever had copied them down hadn’t written down what each seal did exactly - when Izuna pipes up, delighted, “Mada, look, the Clan holdings ledger!” Madara starts, thrown out of his focus on what might be useful notes on building a ward matrix. 

 

The book gets thrust into his face hard enough that his nose smacks hard into the book block, pages too close to read. Madara lifts the weight off his face so he can read the words, and Izuna is right. It’s the ledger of Clan holdings, neatly scrawled out in impeccable penmanship that makes nearly every other word a trial to decipher. Without a GPS or Google Maps Madara won’t be able to tell any of these addresses apart, but as he flips, it becomes clear that some of these holdings were sold or passed on or .... wait. Madara flips back a handful of pages and reads the title. This section is for land. Undeveloped land, each one detailed on a map. Some of it Madara recognizes as being actively farmed or used for livestock especially the places further out afield, but one tract is in one of the oldest districts of the capital. A space Madara has passed by countless times on his commute and wondered at, the half finished walls and the faded Clan marks. Which, who was supposed to be taking care of the place? Madara is not at all surprised at the name he reads. 

 

He lifts his face from the book, and squints at Izuna. “Do we get cell service out here?” Izuna stares back perplexed, and Madara takes it as a yes. He pulls out his cell, and scrolls through his contacts until he finds the right name, then hits the green call button. Predictably, he goes straight to voicemail, but he still fills the message with every curse and vulgarity known to man. “Fucking  _ Setsuna _ ,” is the only thing he needs to tell Izuna, who is graced with a look of enlightenment. 

 

“Four Bless his heart, Setsuna’s got one foot in the grave and the other on a banana peel,” Izuna pronounces gravely. Then, after a beat, “Can we disown him yet?”

 

“Nah, we don’t have enough yes votes yet.” Madara returns to the ledger, waffling between just copying the information down or taking the whole ledger. Finally, he decides to err on the side of expediency and safety and take it with them; he’ll have to produce the document to wrest the property deed from Setsuna and it wouldn’t do to misplace the ledger again. “You’re going to need to call a Clan Meet.” Madara tucks the Clan Holding ledger into his pack, then reaches for the next text. A treatise on cat training appended with adaptations for crow training. Sometimes Madara wonders about his ancestors and their hobbies. Is this better or worse than the one who enjoyed performing autopsies? He can’t tell. He texts the cousins’ group chat and lets them have at hashing the new ranking out. 

 

“No one is going to want to attend a Clan Meet so soon after the last one. It’s only been a month!” Izuna has a point, even if he’s attempting to shirk seneschal duties in favor of not having to attend another all day family affair. Madara sighs, and shuts the probably useful text on woodworking and it’s various joins and how to make them by hand. A deep breath in, past the ache around his ribs, ever present and ever sore like a bone deep bruise, then out carefully as the wheels in his mind spin. 

 

“Call Aunt Mamiko first. Tell her I have a solution for what she and I last spoke about, but it has to be put to a vote. She’ll do the rest.” Fires above and below, Aunt Mamiko is going to be insufferably smug. 

 

Izuna, sensibly, looks concerned but gamely makes note of the directive. “Fine, but just to check, you’re not plotting world domination as some weird and twisted form of courtship ritual, right? I’m pretty sure Tobirama is going to object.” 

 

“What? No!” Madara is pretty sure this is what the hip young ones call a “blue screen of death”, as if they have the technological context to understand what that means. “Where did you get that idea?”

 

Izuna splutters defensively, “You were wearing your ‘plotting to overthrow something’ face! Last time you wore that you threatened to overthrow Dad for Clan Head and the time before that you  _ actually  _ overthrew a Dean at University!” 

 

“They deserved it!” Madara is honestly offended that Izuna thinks he just goes about on a whim to overthrow people. It takes  _ ages _ of planning to do that sort of thing, not a lousy Clan Meet! And the amount of planning and moving parts to even get close means it shouldn’t be done lightly. Did Izuna think he was an evil genius mastermind or something? “ Anyways, I’m overthrowing nothing! At all!” He’s sure the emphatic arms are unnecessary, but he’s protesting his innocence he should get to do emphatic arms. Plus, his arm is cramped up, 

 

“Suuuuure. Pull the other leg while you’re down there.” Izuna snorts from where he’s furiously flipping through what looks like the more interesting bits of the Clan bylaws. It's either that or the original wards for Kōjin. Scratch that, Madara hopes it's the original wards for Kōjin. Those are a thing of beauty that far surpass Mito’s work at Konoha, and Madara  _ wants _ .

 

It's not worth arguing with his little brother, since Izuna inherited all of their mother’s ... _ tenacity _ . Madara folds like a house of cards with a sigh, “Just. Make the call. We need to have a vote before the month is out.”

 

Izuna grins, and an unconscious shiver of terror runs down Madara's spine. “Aye, aye Mada.” Madara already knows he's going to regret this immensely.

 

* * *

 

_ Tobirama is glaring at him and Madara is sure he’s going to pay dearly for this later but, “Call Hashirama  _ now _. Your mother and mine are having  _ tea _.” Madara’s is sure he’s panicking, but no sane man wouldn’t. Fire God and all the Small Lords, please let this not be like that time with his great-great-great-great-great grandmother and the poisoning of whichever Senju ancestress was alive at the time. That was a thing that happened. Madara peeks out from the mouth of the alley he had unceremoniously shoved his now irate boyfriend into just to confirm what he saw.  _

 

_ Yup. His mother is wearing her mother’s antique pearl necklace and earring set, the one she only pulled out for intimidation occasions. Like the tea she hosted for the Head of Clans meet fourteen years back. Come to think of it, that’s the same navy dress suit she wore then.  _

 

_ Tobirama pushes off Madara’s hand, breathing deeply. “I’m sure there’s nothing... nefarious in our other’s having tea. Tea is something I have heard that people do, and I have it on good authority that it’s a civilized way to get to know someone.” The glare speaks volumes as to how civilized Tobirama thinks Madara is acting right now, but Madara is not sure how to explain the gravity of the situation. Tobirama exits the alley and tugs his waistcoat back into place, and Madara follows to protest his case.  _

 

_ Instead he gets a hurried push into the bookstore they had originally come into this sleepy country town to see, Tobirama pale and frowning as they hurry to a dark corner of the front window. “I stand corrected, I’m going to call Brother and you are going to go put your detective skulking skills to good use for once and go make sure no one is attempting to kill each other over there.”  _

 

_ “What. You just - .” Madara pauses and reconsiders. “What detective skulking - what do you think I do? We’re officers of the law we don’t  _ skulk. _ ”  _

 

_ “It doesn’t matter right now, go over there and make like you’re covering the bill preemptively or something.” Tobirama snaps over his cell phone, clearly dialing Hashi’s number. “Just make sure there aren’t any dead bodies being made. Ah, no, not you Brother, I was talking to Madara. No, there isn’t a gang war -” _

 

_ Madara takes the hand shooing him out of their dark corner as impetus to go investigate - like what a detective actually does - the genteel cafe that his mother and Mrs. Senju are doing their level best to glare lightning across the table. He notices his mother using what she called “Court manners” - the etiquette she had learned for her debut to the Daimyo’s court and official presentation to the Clans as an adult. Mrs. Senju is wearing a porcelain perfect smile - not her real one, warm and bright, but probably her company smile, a blank and empty facade for whatever her true thoughts are hidden tightly under lock and eye.  _

 

_ The maître d' meets him at the reception, “Hello sir, how may I help you?” Subtly classy then, since the exterior did not make this seem like the sort of place that would have waitstaff like this. A power move, probably by his mother, to sense if Mrs. Senju would fall for the feint. That Mrs. Senju had shown up in heels and pearls and a tweed skirt suit set meant Madara’s mother had been foiled, but what her aim was originally was the question.  _

 

_ Madara tries for a disarming and friendly smile, but by the look on the maître d's face he missed the mark by a mile and then some. “Ah, I noticed my mother and her friend here for tea, and I wanted to see if I could go and head and cover the bill?” The maître d' does not look any more trustful, so he nods his head at the garden patio just beyond the latticework door. “Asakichi Uchiha and her guest?”   _

 

_ The light dawns and the woman startles. “Oh! Of course, Mr. Uchiha, please, let me.” She takes his card and bustles off to do whatever it is that needs doing. Madara settles into a position that he can overhear his mother and Mrs. Senju and waits. _

 

_ “Tomoyo, it’s been pleasant to catch up. I can’t say I’ve had such an enjoyable time at tea in a long while.” His mother sounds like she is truly pleased, but by what Madara can’t fathom. Mrs. Senju is gentle and witty to his mother’s tough love and straightforward nature. _

 

_ “We should have done this sooner. Especially since our sons are ....” Mrs. Senju trails off uncomfortably, as if uncertain where his mother stands on his and Tobirama’s relationship, if she knows at all. “Involved.” _

 

_ An ungainly snort, “They’re fucking, you can say it. Probably like bunnies if the way my eldest looks at your second born is anything to go by.” And that answers that. Madara wants to call his mother out, fumble out the words that would explain that it’s more than just  _ sex _. Fire God’s flaming balls. But no, his mother isn’t done. “It’s either that or it’s a late continuation of Madara’s childhood rebellions.” _

 

_ Mrs. Senju is stone silent for a moment, before his voice rings out like ice against glass. “I must confess I am not sure what you mean.” The dull clink of china against china.  _

 

_ When it’s clear Mrs. Senju is not going to continue, his mother speaks, “Tomoyo, you have to have noticed. Madara and Tobirama... they’re more chaste than monks as far as anyone can recall seeing. Enough that one has to wonder. In the year or so they’ve been... dating, no one has ever seen either of them being anything but cute and innocent in their interactions, eye sex notwithstanding. Even teenagers get caught at least making out!” Madara is affronted and would like to reference Kagami to his mother forthwith. He is not chaster than a monk!  _

 

_ Actually, is that something he wants to admit to his mother? Madara is torn, and probably would have continued to waffle had Mrs. Senju not spoken, “With all due respect, Asakichi, I’m sure you know my son well enough now to understand he is intensely private and public displays of affection are not his preference. That your son is respectful of this makes me happy, that my Tobirama has found someone who respects him and his ...boundaries and still wants him, given the eyes Madara makes some times.... And the verbal...  _ sparring...  _ they take part in.” A pointed sip of tea before continuing levelly, “That they are happy is all either of us needs to be concerned about as parents.”  _

 

_ Madara is pretty sure Mrs. Senju just implied Tobirama and he use banter as foreplay. To his mother. It takes a moment for his brain to unfreeze, but he’s also pretty sure Mrs. Senju is right. Fire God and all the Small Lords, smite him now so he won’t have to deal with looking his mother or Mrs. Senju in the eye ever again. Someone in the Heavens is listening, because the maître d' comes back with his credit card and her most profuse apologies for the delay. He signs the receipt, and exits as discreetly as possible back to the bookstore.  _

 

_ Tobirama greets him in the reading nook, “Brother is currently indisposed and promises that any murder attempts are unknown to him. I think he missed the point entirely, but probably willfully.” A wry twist to his mouth tells Madara everything, and Four above, Madara missed him. “ Were there any murder attempts?” _

 

_ Madara flops into the free space of the loveseat, curling himself around his boyfriend. “No murder, just.... Sizing each other up, I guess?” He shrugs, then peers over Tobirama’s shoulder at the thick tome in Tobirama’s lap. “Is that the latest translation of the Uzushio scrolls? The one with the extended treatise on Lost Arts? Should you even be allowed to touch that?” _

 

_ Tobirama pushes Madara’s face away, “No, it’s a translation of one of the  _ Mizu _ scrolls about the Lost Arts. Though they have several key points about Reanimation wrong already.” Madara settles back with a sly grin; he’s going to get to enjoy Tobirama annotating everything wrong and then publishing it as “theory”. Then, “Sizing each other up? For what?” _

 

_ Another shrug, even as Madara rifles through the stack of books Tobirama somehow already had time to purchase. A mystery novel seems promising, but so does the textbook on making crystal shields. “It’s probably one of those ‘Are you the right sort of people to associate with’ things? Though that bit of interrogation was over, our mothers had...  _ thoughts  _ about us. Well, my mother more audibly than yours.” Madara hopes he doesn’t have to speak the rest of the words, doesn’t have to explain how his mother thinks their relationship is suspect and Mrs. Senju ... Mrs. Senju probably thinks the same though she’s never going to say so out loud.  _

 

_ The twist to his voice and his face must tell all. “Oh, did they now?” Oh good, a lapful of Tobirama. It’s not new, yet novel for the setting. On reflex, his hands go to Tobirama’s waist, steadying the precarious perch Tobirama has taken even as Tobirama’s arms twine around his neck. “Would it be anything to do with the fact you came in here and immediately cuddled me?”  _

 

_ Madara can feel Tobirama’s lips move just millimeters away from his own, smell his cologne, sharp and familar, and the silk soft feel of his skin even as Madara’s own ignites into a flush half aroused and half embarrassed. His inner core of fire is interested either way, fluttering excitedly and Fire God above, please let him not set fire to anything. “Ah - that is to say - er.”  _

 

_ A smirk Madara feels rather than sees. “So eloquent. And flattering. Then, shall we ... put on a show?” Madara is steaming and he can  _ feel  _ it, which is blatant enough invitation that he’s not sure who moves first. The result is still the same, so he ignores it in favor of chasing the flavor and feel and sensation of Tobirama.  _

 

_ There is something to making out like particularly exhibitionist-prone teens. Time contracts, everything is touch and taste and feel and stretches minutes into milliseconds more and more and more. Pleasant and breathtaking, rising like a bonfire fresh lit across kindling and twigs and wood and higher and higher and higher until it feels like he could burst. He’s twisted up until the lines between him and Tobirama are blurred for want of more, more of the silk of his skin, more of the weight of fingers tangled tight in his hair, more of that twist just so. They break apart for air panting, and the pointed cough of someone to their collective right. “Sirs, if you could. We’re closing for lunch.”  _

 

_ Ah, hello mortification. Madara is still red, he knows it, but so is Tobirama so it’s acceptable. They straighten themselves guiltily as they apologize and collect Tobirama’s purchases, then flee with all due haste while trying not to look thoroughly debauched even though it’s a failing endeavor. Halfway down the street, Madara feels the tell-tale vibration of his phone, and fishes it out. His mother has texted him some time back, with a eggplant, sweat drop, and a thumbs up emoji. Madara stops and stares because that. That.  _

 

_ He’s probably making a broken wheezing noise, like someone who’s had the breath driven out of them by a high velocity baseball to the solar plexus. He never should have let Izuna teach their mother about emojis. Tobirama, that traitor, is failing to hide his mirth even as he pats Madara consolingly on the back. Yet, he’s still standing by Madara’s side, so Madara is going to take that as a win. Except, warm breath on his ear amused, “Maybe we should do that more often,” which kicks off a new fit of coughing for breath and fuck fire and brimstone Tobirama is going to be the death of him. Madara can’t really say he’ll mind. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Ostensibly World building) notes!
> 
> \- Pigeons and doves are genetically identical. Make of that what you will :3c  
> \- Thyme is feminine in nature and associated with the element of water and the planet Venus. Thyme can be used in magic spells to increase strength and courage. When working hard to achieve a goal that seems un-achievable, thyme can be used in spells to help you keep a positive attitude. Fumigate your home with thyme to dispel melancholy, hopelessness and other mellow but negative vibrations, especially after a family tragedy or during a long sickness.  
> \- Oregano is ruled by Venus and the element of air. It is used in spells for happiness, tranquility, luck, health, protection and letting go of a loved one. It can also be used in spells to deepen existing love.  
> -Yes, this is me calling my own damn self out over the hobbit reference.  
> -Aka - boudoir. Of all the things. Hashi and Izuna are not subtle and really are getting back at Madara for forcing them to these lengths. Its v. Clear and not passive aggressive at all.  
> -Yes that is a callout to the original house in YRMo(H)  
> \- Earth God temples look a lot like Gothic Cathedrals, especially of the High Gothic style. I like the idea of the symbolism of light pouring through the stained glass in rainbows of colors into these otherwise dark and dank halls being like light from the above ground sneaking into the Earth God's halls.  
> -The Six Earth Knights: Soil, Stone, Mountain, Field, Plant, Animal, with an always empty radiating chapel for Grave/ Tomb.  
> -Is this an Indiana Jones dig or a Laura Croft dig we just don't know  
> -Apples have a lot of symbolism. There's the common Christian belief of sin, temptation, but also life and redemption. This is not what Kagami means/ what the apples here mean since 1) Christianity doesn't exist in this universe, 2) the magical symbolism is taken from Wicca/ Celtic ideas so the apple will also be similar, 3) because I, the author say so. In Celtic tradition, the apple is a symbol of integrity, purity and goodwill. It also had a meaning of presence of love, even long after the hour of passion. Kagami is saying a lot with these apples, basically. 
> 
> To go on a slightly related tangent, before the rise of Christianity, other ancient cultures viewed the apple in a more positive light. In Ancient Greece and Rome, it was a symbol of Aphrodite/Venus, but also of temptation and strife/ discord/ war. Basically things that love can lead you to that are sin. (It is no small coincidence that Christianity rose in the last years of Ancient Rome, so though the forbidden fruit is never named in the Old Testament, it would have culturally been conflated with what the locals already understood to be a fruit of temptation - the apple - to make it easier to convert people. Like how Jesus's birthday is actually sometime in July based on the stars, but was changed to December to coincide with another "pagan" festival to make it more palatable for the Greco-Romans. Tl;dr the more you know /shrug.)  
> -To be fair to Setsuna, he inherited the land from his father who was incompetent and did not maintain the place so he continued the tradition of being useless. Still, Setsuna is _useless_. Fuck that guy  
>  -Tomoyo, meaning wise era or worldly wisdom
> 
>  
> 
> That's all folks, I was so run down trying to write this. Thank you so much to everyone who left comments on the last chapter, I really appreciate it and you don;t know how many times I went back and re-read those to keep me going when all I wanted to do was quit. I still think this chapter is something of a trashfire, but that may just be me being sick of looking at it, so let me know your thoughts!
> 
> The next few months are going to be hectic for me, so I'm not sure when the next update will be. But! This fic will not be abandoned, the next chapter will come eventually! 
> 
> Please feel free to leave a comment down below or to come leave a note in my askbox on [ tumblr](http://modernart2012.tumblr.com)!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Madara gets reality checked, a bit, has Feelings but Doesn't Confront them, and Everyone Around Him Knows What's Up
> 
> Or Plot. Because I have made Mistakes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oops. Sorry this took forever - this chapter did not want to cooperate. It's extra long this time though? And probably back on track unless i take a detour again in the future, though the chapter count is going up in self defense. 
> 
> Have at the trash fire _flees_

Madara has never been comfortable on the Senju family grounds, even as a child, for it’s stiff manufactured presentation full of artifice and lacking the warmth of a true home, the hushed sensation of being constantly observed, constantly expected to be just so, that has steeped into the consciousness of the building itself. Sarutahiko is as rigid and unyielding as frozen soil, and just coming near the house earns Madara the beginnings of a headache as the building huffs at his greeting. Small mercies Butsuma Senju is dead and gone, or the headache Madara is growing would quickly morph into a full blown migraine. Madara is sure to collect the bags of food he prepared last night from his car, neatly stacked and planned to meet the daily recommended nutritional balance of the average individual. His afternoon is clear by design, since Mrs. Senju deserves his undivided attention. And since her useless progeny can’t be bothered to come check in on her rattling around alone in the ostentatious box the Senju Clan thought of as the _epitome_ of taste, it falls to Madara to do it and do it well.

 

Mrs. Senju meets him at the door, neatly dressed in her usual pristine neutrals and pastels, hair arranged into a tidy bun. The house gives an ominous creak of warning before dousing him with _rock-soil-calm- oceanair-warning-welcome_ , clearly letting Madara know Sarutahiko has his eyes on him and that any funny business will be met with swift and strict sanction. It’s been decades and Madara still gets the same warning, which probably speaks more to the Senju and their attitudes since those have so clearly, impregnably imbued into their Clan House. Madara lets Mrs. Senju flick her water censer over him even as he sends an affirmation and acceptance of the warning to the house, before stepping into her offered embrace and returning it with true pleasure. “Madara,” she sighs as always, delighted yet lightly demurring at the sight of the stuffed totes full of food, “You shouldn’t have.” Still, Madara follows her to the kitchen and helps her put away the few ready meals and loose groceries he brought, to tack the meal plan to the containers so it doesn’t get misplaced. He takes note that the dishes are set to dry in the dish drainer in an orderly fashion, and there's no Tsuchi ceramic fragments discreetly hidden in the trash. Today must be a good day, then. He confirms with the manse too, though Sarutahiko gives the information with distaste and condescension - the medicines must be working; Mrs. Senju hasn’t had a bad day in a good while. Madara makes a mental note to text the information to Tsunade, then returns to checking the pantry and essentials. He’s going to have to send the list to Mito and Nawaki, since Mrs. Senju loves the fancy oatmeal they mix and she’s almost out of their blend, and it’s a good way to get at least one blood relative to see their grandmother.

 

Madara shoos Mrs. Senju off and brings the tea service with him to the sun room. A mellow mint black tea, with lemon lavender madelines makes catching up smooth and meandering, even as his stomach ties itself in knots. They talk at length of Hashi and his more... _radical_ policies, and Mito’s job at the university, of Izuna and Madara’s parents, of Mrs. Senju’s butterfly garden. It makes it easier to overlook the slight tremble of Mrs. Senju’s hands, the delicate music of bone Tsuchi ceramic tea cup against saucer, or the occasional fumble of fingers over blackberries. A touch of Mrs. Senju’s _whisper-lift-soar-seabreeze_ and their tea is cool enough to drink, keeps the air flowing around them without stagnating.

 

“And how goes Clan House hunting?” The topic change is slightly awkward, knowing sparkling in Mrs. Senju’s vibrant red eyes that makes Madara feel like a specimen under a microscope. He almost asks how she knows about that, but Mito or Hashi would be good guesses, if not any of her other relatives. Though the Senju progeny might never willingly set foot anywhere near their ancestral house, they did at least pick up a phone - however lackluster a standard of familial care it was, it certainly is better than nothing.

 

He sets down his tea cup and mindlessly marvels at the painted on Senju crest, smooth and sans blurring under the crystal clear glaze. Impossibly delicate work, finer than the filaments of silk from a spiders’ web, like this conversation. “There has been some progress towards finding a site, though it needs to be finalized.” The china is fingernail thin, Madara marvels, and Mrs. Senju had put the hot tea in first, then the milk. He really should ask after the craftsman.

 

Mrs. Senju takes pity on him. “Are you here to ask for my blessing dear? You had it a long while back, you know.” A mild huff of laughter, somehow elegant for all that it is exasperated, still kind for that is it laughter at Madara. “Though I suspect my son will care more about his own opinions on the matter than my blessings or approval.”

 

Madara is blurting out words before he can process, “What?” The manse hovers at the fringes of Madara’s awareness, like an ever present butler or maid, only this time with a sharp rap mentally about his manners, though half-hearted in the face of Madara’s shaken emotions reverberating into the house’s foundations.

 

An arched silvery brow rises, ”Don't play coy, Madara, it doesn't suit you.” Except, Madara honestly doesn’t know what Mrs. Senju is talking about. It must show, as her eyes widen before she recomposes herself. He tea cup is set down, and leans forward, “You and I both know you Uchiha don't believe in having a house that isn't lived in. And as Asakichi tells me, since you’re the one building the house, you're going to be the one living there, and that presumably includes Tobirama since you’ve been together so long. Since there is a certain.... _connotation_ with building houses and living together in your clan, it's safe for me to presume you're here to ask my blessing. Which is sweet. Fairly traditional in a certain patriarchal way, but sweet.”

 

This is worse than the time with the lingerie. Had he really been - Is this -? “I - How - What - Where....” Madara’s words are just as broken as his thoughts - disjointed and encompassing things that he has no coherent sense to encapsulate and communicate. His mind is a blue screen of death and his operating system has stopped working. Sarutahiko tuts.

 

“Goodness, what did we parents teach our children? I haven’t seen someone this frazzled by emotions since Tobi was in high school and realized you weren’t just hot in temperature.” Oh right, _this_ is where Hashi learned how to announce embarrassing things in a blase manner. He wants to curl up and hide under the nearest piece of available furniture, not the least because Mrs. Senju just revealed that Tobirama thought Madara was hot when they were in _high school_.  “You’ve gone quite red; did you really not know? Hashi and Nawa have been arguing ring styles for months now since it seemed your intentions were clear.” Which explains the flood of blown wide eyes jumping with barely suppressed excitement anytime Madara did anything even remotely construable as romantic.

 

He must have given Mrs. Senju panicked eyes, because she just takes his closest hand between hers and pats it soothingly, warm compassion dyed cinnamon and soft. “There, there, at least you know now. Would it help if we pretend the last 5 minutes never happened and you can get back to what Kagami tells me is a very carefully planned and rehearsed speech?” She straightens up and rearranges herself to look like the ultimate model of innocent and attentive.

 

Kagami is a traitor and Madara is going to sic Hikaku on him again at the earliest possible convenience. Not that that particular fact is going to save Madara from needing _words_ when he’s busy trying to rearrange his entire worldview around the idea that - that. Fire God and all the Small Lords preserve him, he’s a grown ass adult and can handle his shit. Except - his speech has abandoned him, and frankly this explains entirely too much about his life and how invested persons outside himself and Tobirama are in their relationship. “How much of this is going to get back to the group chat?” Madara asks a little helplessly, both stalling for something else to think about and so he can adequately prepare himself.

 

“Oh all of it, dear. I’ve been taking notes.” Madara needs to remember that Mrs. Senju explains the totality of his best friend more often. Sarutahiko does the house equivalent of laughing in his face, but more “genteelly mannered” in a way that only sounds haughty and not the least empathetic.

 

Madara pulls out his phone and pulls out the (poor! Paltry, lacking, hollow, and a million other words Tobirama would know, would have ready to use to explain its inadequacies!) moodboard he’s managed to throw together. It’s .... more like a tween girl’s collage for her future, too full of blank spaces and images that are clearly cut and paste without much cohesion. Except, digital, a whole album that mocks Madara from where it burns a hole in his pocket.

 

Mrs. Senju swipes through silently, her face unreadable in the same way Tobirama’s is when his focus is consumed by something. It aches in its familiarity - a bruise that Madara is poking, deep seated but shrinking from blue-black to yellow-green to something a bit stronger for having been hurt. Time passes like an eternity, Madara choking back the urge to snatch his phone away and pretend that it had never happened.

 

Finally, Mrs. Senju looks up, her face inscrutable. His phone is still cradled reverently between her wrinkling hands, whispered with age and slightly shaky. She wets her lips noiselessly as she organizes her thoughts, and Madara finds he’s on the edge of his seat, waiting and nerves steeled. A child again, hoping for something halfway kind to come out of an adult’s mouth but also waiting for the metaphorical verbal blow that may be lurking just out of sight. She weighs the phone in her hands, then folds it back into Madara’s grip. “It’s _perfect.”_

 

Those words land like a critical blow - hard across the aches and pains his father had impressed into him as a child in finding Madara constantly wanting as progeny, no matter how hard Madara tried, how much he excelled - and part of him wants to flinch back at the way Mrs. Senju clasps his hands between both her own while another part wants to luxuriate in the reassurance she offers. “Madara, you’ve put so _much_ into this - so much of yourself, of what you feel, of my son through your eyes - how can it not be perfect? I know that - you may not believe me. But I know you, and I know my son. He will love it. And, for what it’s worth, you have my blessing. Even though I know you might never have the words to ask me out loud, _you have my blessing_.”

 

Madara knows tears are pricking the corners of his eyes, and Fire God and all the Small Lords, he really does need to remember Hashi comes by the totality of his earnest character honestly. He doesn’t have the ability to croak out his thanks, but from the understanding smile Mrs. Senju gives him, the way she squeezes his hands comfortingly between her own, he knows that she knows everything he cannot bring himself to break by saying out loud.

 

* * *

 

_“Air God hear my words, and let them be faithful and true. Once, long long ago when the world was still new and the order of things still being laid out, the Air God wandered the world alone. This was the way it was for eons, and the Air God knew no other way. Like this, the Air God observed the world and knew all, judged fairly and justly in deciding the world. One day, everything changed. In the dawn of a new day, the Air God watched a star fall to the earth, and found a young spirit in the crater left. This was something the Air God had never seen before, and it aroused his curiosity for the first time. The Air God had seen parents the world over, but never been one, never had a child, and felt compassion for the baby all alone in this world.  The Air God took her in as a ward, naming her a Princess of the Heavens -,” Nawaki’s voice - trained as it is - wafts over mellifluously from the corner where Hashi and Mito are holding their annual shadow puppet theatre. The children at the party are gathered around, electrified with sugar and excitement but enraptured all the same at the story being played out in front of them._

 

_It’s the same story Great Uncle Daiki told when Madara was a child at this same yearly celebration, so Madara is confident he can stop paying attention to the show. Instead he sinks his focus on the muscles just out of view that he can feel cording across Tobirama’s back under the slow, sleepy, sated sweep of his thumb over thin cotton.Tobirama is leaning up against his side, “For maximum safe-for-work heat sharing,” though his smirk did not promise safe-for-work things, lazily tracing circles on Madara’s thighs, and Madara can’t help but sink into the rhythm of the action and the easy, sure tandem their hands move across each other’s skin. A wordless duet, silent affection steady and sure in motion. The night is turning chilly, a welcome relief from the unseasonable warmth that plagued the afternoon and early evening, that plagued the last season, and Madara can’t help but think of the way Great Uncle Daiki always claimed that chilly change of seasons meant that the next season would be good, be lucky, be fruitful. Hopefully in this case it means the monsoons would come and come quickly, come adequately, partch the thirst sweeping all of Hi no Kuni. They might not be able to handle another year of drought, and Hi no Kuni didn’t have enough Water Masters to make enough water for both the crops and the people.The last two years had run Tobirama ragged, from fighting forest fires near constantly, and it ached that Madara couldn't do more than pack tonics and distillations and send soup to help bolster flagging spirits and falling magic reserves._

 

_Tobirama tucks in tighter against Madara on the lounger as a chilly breeze cuts through the garden, rustling the trees. Except maybe not so much due to the wind as coming closer to murmur along with Nawaki, a resonant counterpoint harmony that only Madara can hear, “Thus parted from her mortal lover, the Weaver Princess slowly faded away - no clouds were woven each day, nor were there new skies dyed in the hues of the seasons. No new clothes draped the heavenly courts, no new tapestries decorated the walls, and everything was still. The Air God’s retinue took pity, each Divine Wind coming with pleas to the Air God to visit the Weaver Princess before her heart-sickness took her to the Earth God’s Halls. Finally, the Air God relented, and went to the Weaver Princess, feverish and wane in her rooms._

 

_“‘Oh, my God,’ the Weaver Princess begged from her deathbed, ‘Please let me see my beloved one more time before I go to the next life!’ Upon seeing how sick the Weaver Princess was, the Air God felt remorse, as the Water God had warned. But, the Air God knew that there is no way to lift a curse placed by a God, even by that God themself, and that the Weaver Princess and her beloved were too weak apart to survive any change to the magic keeping them apart, tied as it was to them._

 

_“‘Oh, my child, if you could spend even a moment more with your beloved, would you consent to any price I ask to make it so?’ The Air God spoke, with heavy heart._

 

_“‘Yes, yes, a thousand times yes! May my word be a bond upon my soul!’ The answer was immediate, and in a flash the Air God used the most secret knowledge only the Air God knew to bind the heavenly powers of the Weaver Princess and her Cowherd for eternity. Their hearts beat together as one, their breaths were united, and their very souls tied for all of time._

 

 _“‘My child, you know I, in all the knowledge I possess, still do not know how to fully lift a curse. But, that does not mean I cannot_ change _a curse. You now carry your beloved with you for eternity. Just as you are an immortal, so is he, and you will have eternity to spend together - for one night and day a year. Just as the stars fell to bring you to me, the stars will fall to bring you together.’ And the Weaver Princess wept her gratitude -”_

 

_Tobirama’s voice trails off, even as Nawaki’s continues on strong in the distance, describing how the Weaver Princess and her Cowherd yearly wove a bridge between the heavens and the earth with their shared heavenly powers to meet. “Madara?”_

 

_He’d been distracted by the way Tobirama’s voice, the way it rumbled pleasingly across his chest and into Madara’s, by the lull of the rhythm against the fingers still tracing across his thigh drugging him into peace. “Hm?”_

 

_“Is it possible to share powers? The way the story describes.” There was curiosity, blindingly brilliant vermillion, intrigue sparking even as thought processes whirled. Madara almost regretted telling Tobirama that the myth about the Uchiha is based in truth, but it made for interesting dates and taught more about the way Tobirama thought than any conversation ever could. Madara will defend to the last breath that this is the sole reason he can predict Tobirama’s bullet fast trains of thinking, but maybe it says something too that Madara knows these things so well, has studied and noted and learned Tobirama. Has let himself be known in turn, given the certainty with which Tobirama tucked himself into Madara, certain of his welcome even without asking._

 

_It takes him a moment to place the question, to think and rummage through the depths of the tales the older generations of his family had passed on. “Not the way the myth describes it, no. But, if you ever took one of my organs ... maybe?” He can’t help but snicker at the dissatisfied wrinkle that marks Tobirama’s loathing of such a mundane answer. The fact that magical energy could be augmented via organ donation was an old, well documented phenomena, afterall._

 

_A sudden cry goes up, a child excitedly pointing at the sky. “Look, the stars are falling! Mama, where’s my wish!?” The other children excitedly scramble up, about, the full stillness of the night broken in a mad dash for pockets, parents, purses._

 

_Hundreds of meteors rocket across the sky as everyone fumbles for the slips of paper they’ve scribbled wishes on, to blow into the wind as the stars fall so that maybe the Weaver Princess and her husband will carry them to the heavens and the Air God’s ears. A simple twist of air that every child learns is all it takes to lift the wishes over the treeline, some smoother than others, in a variety of shapes and sizes. A crane, a rose, a frog, a bison, a set of stars. The little blips of white mix in among the streaks of white falling across the skies, one more shooting star added to the dozens decorating the pure inky indigo of the night. It’s childish, but a part of Madara that still hasn’t grown up, grown old, clings to the idea of wishes on falling stars coming true, fervently repeats his wish one more time, just in case the Gods are listening and might be moved to make it true._

 

* * *

 

Surprisingly, it takes less work than expected to convene everyone for a Clan Meeting. Madara has to concede that Aunt Mamiko did her job well, or at least smoothed the path for Izuna, given the sheer electricity surging about the room and the number of people in attendance. Someone’s even convinced Great Great Uncle Atsushi, and the man has been a senile and deaf hermit for the past decade, which should concern Madara more than it does. He might be disassociating himself from the present, just a bit. Madara instead focuses on the ledger, on the notebook of paperwork and the repercussions still whirling around his head. Fire’s Above and below, he’s torn - half still committed, more assured and confident with the _rightness_ singing in his veins like fire, that this is the path he is meant to take, _fate,_ and half more nervous than ever, that this is ruining a good thing, going to fail and flounder and fall apart like a spun sugar bridge across water. It settles ill in his stomach, pure mucus over acid, buffered yet dissolving by turns and it distracts him from the way the hall slowly fills, as people take their seats. Distantly, as if through a tunnel, he sees his parents as they settle into the chairs provided for the elderly who cannot sit on the ground for long. His mother wriggles her fingers in a silent hello, but his father ignores him studiously, as if waiting for the comedy of errors to start. At least _someone_ will get some entertainment out of what promises to be an utter circus.

 

Hikaku opens the Meeting very solemnly, lighting the incense cone full of calming spearmint and eucalyptus, then placing it in a box diffuser. Then, when the room is good and quiet and smoky, and everyone’s ignored the fact the incense has exploded - thanks Kagami, why can you not be trusted to make the incense without making it mildly explosive - no less than three times, he carefully pronounces, “We have been called by the ties that bind us.”

 

By rote the room answers, in unison if not harmony, “And we have answered.” Madara idly notes the acoustics of the room, the wall of noise has never been so overbearing, never so threatened to pull him under with the weight of its sound.

 

“Then as we have answered, let this Meeting of Clan Uchiha come to order,” Hikaku intones. Madara has already submitted the meeting brief to Hikaku earlier, so he doesn’t have to do anything as Hikaku hones in on the blank space where Setsuna is supposed to sit behind Great Aunt Hisako like a shark smelling blood in the water. “Clan Head Madara?”

 

He straightens his spine, though it doesn’t help much with the ache hard between his shoulder blades. “Recently, We have found the Clan Holdings Ledger in the Nanaka Shrine. Considering where it was found and what information it held, We can only presume it was purposefully hidden.” It's a near thing - Madara nearly defaults to the singular - and he can hear the phantom chuff of humor Tobirama would laugh,  tease about how many years now had Madara been Clan Head and still hasn't gotten the syntax down? It rises unexpectedly, but softly, kindly, not jagged and drawing blood, wounding like past memories.

 

Careful of the loosened binding holding the pages together, Madara carefully reads out the pertinent entry, address and acreage included. He can hear the murmurs of incredulity and amazement tripping across the room in a ripple. Madara pauses just short of reading the title-holder of the land, and instead clears his throat, “We have passed by this land several times over the years, and always wondered at the neglect of such valuable land. It came to some surprise that it was Uchiha land being mismanaged, left fallow when it could have been developed to the good of the Clan.

 

“Thus, We wish to put forth the idea of having that land developed into the grounds of the Uchiha Clan House here in the Capital. It is ideally located, with space enough not only for guests, but guest houses and meeting halls and still space for meeting out of doors as well as a garden or two. We open the floor to discussion.”

 

Madara nods once at Hikaku, who calls on Uncle Tetsu to be heard. The man coughs once, before calling, “But who will live there? We can see that no one was inhabiting the land previously, otherwise the grounds would not be so shamefully left to disrepair.” Other voices chime in in agreement.

 

Aunt Shiori speaks next, her face lost in the depth of smoke but voice firm and resounding across the room, “That presumes that we are in agreement the land should be put to use. The cost of repairing the outer wall alone will be exorbitant, let alone the taxes in that part of the Capital, which means no person or family who is just starting out will be able to live there. It would be better to sell.”

 

Murmurs break out, clearly conflicted. Aunt Shiori is among the most astute accountants in the business, and while it has saved many a people a substantial amount of ryo, Madara wants to whack her with the ceremonial gunbai off the wall. Not everything is about money, though Tobirama would argue the contrary to much aplomb. Madara hopes, torn, that Tobirama both meets and doesn't meet his hawk-like Aunt. He's not sure his Aunt would survive the encounter, or even escape unscathed. “Aunt Shiori, thank you for that point. The answer will also directly answer Uncle Tetsu’s question. It is true that the value of the land is large, as will be the cost to repair and build a home, but it is not without careful consideration of the Clan House budget that We suggested this recourse. The fund initially set aside has quintupled in the past years thanks to Our Aunt's careful management, and it should suffice to cover the expenses.

 

“That the taxes are large does not seem to be an consequential issue for the current title holder, though they may be relieved to have the burden taken off their lone shoulders. Furthermore, since it is inherited land that will be for Clan use and will be repaired and restored in a historic neighborhood, there is a large reduction in tax that will offset the costs of repair and inhabitance of the place.

 

“However, that still would not decrease the property value tax to any level that a single person or family that is not already well established can manage on their own. That is why We put forth that We restore and live in the house, passing Our condo to whomever in the Clan most needs it without rent or other cost beyond utilities and upkeep.”

 

There is dead silence, and Aunt Mamiko looks like she ate a canary. Aunt Shiori seems appeased, but that might be because Madara can’t see her face. Everyone else around looks poleaxed, which might be a good thing or could be bad. Madara takes it as a sign that the yelling is going to commence shortly, and wishes he was like Great Great Uncle Atsushi and could just turn his hearing _off_.

 

A shrill, teenage scream sets it off. Madara really hopes it’s not Kagami, but no, Kagami is in raptures over in the corner where Madara can see him - dancing something celebratory, hopefully not that limb flinging mess from Fortnite. Must be the teenagers screaming then, good. Voices careen over one another in sheer havoc. “Are you going to -?” “Congratulations! - “ “Finally!” -  Glitter confetti falls from somewhere, and a vuvuzela starts sounding. Who even brought any of those? - “What color scheme do you -” “Fire God’s eternal flame!” “- Wedding contracts are such a pain!” “In your face you ill-begotten flea-ridden mutt!” “-Who did you use for Hideo’s wedding, for the invites? They were quite good.” “Fuck fire and brimstone -” “Ha! You owe me 1000 ryo! -” That last one is mildly concerning - Madara thought he had outlawed any betting pools? And who had fleas, that was just a hygiene issue - “Traditional might be best, less room for misunderstandings -” “Order! Order!”

 

Hikaku manages to restore some semblance of order, though Madara thinks it might be Cousin Mikoto more than Hikaku. Izuna, that rat, is giggling gleefully from where he is taking minutes. The transcript probably reads something like, “And the meeting descended into chaos while Mada looked like Suffering,” knowing Izuna. Fire God’s flaming _balls_ , this is worse than he expected.

 

Aunt Mamiko speaks, unrecognized but she’s always been a maverick who thinks rules are for sheep, “Does this mean you’ve proposed to your Senju? And he said yes?”

 

Madara has to stifle a cough as he admits, “Not precisely.” Eyebrows fly up, whispers break out again. Madara can feel the judgement emanating from all sides, and this must be what a hunted animal feels like just before the end.

 

Aunt Mamiko harrumphs, undeterred, “Then what do you mean?” Great Aunt Hisako chimes in with her agreement, as do a few more voices. The only other one Madara catches for certain is Fugaku, but Madara already knew there was a reason Madara disliked that old fogey. Maybe he can bribe Cousin Mikoto to brain Fugaku stupid in a freak monkey wrench accident?

 

Kagami pipes up, gleeful. "Basically, Mada moved on from trying to woo Tobirama with superior househusband skills," here Kagami made a few suggestive dance moves that most consisted of wriggling in place while sliding vertically downward in an unrhythmic and uncoordinated fashion until he was on the floor, "to wooing by building a house." Kagami turned to face Madara from the floor, spread eagle and asking for beheading,  "Keep going Madara! We believe in you!" Madara wishes one more time Aunt Mari had managed to pass on her no-nonsense personality to her son. Or that Tobirama had not failed to use Scientific Rigor to drive the drama from Kagami, but Tobirama couldn't be blamed for a hopeless case he inherited.

 

Aunt Mamiko considers, as does the rest of the hall. “Old fashioned perhaps, but not without precedent. Who’s the unlucky bastard who’s losing a lot of wealth assets to a Clan House?” Her grin is feral, and the child in Madara quakes in terror.

 

He’d been holding out hope that this was a conversation they wouldn’t have to have. Thankfully, Izuna must have given it away with a sly glance, because the room erupts again. “Goddammit Setsuna!” “Fucking Setsuna-!” “- do you know how many times we talked shit about whichever fucking moron had that property?!” “Fire God’s _balls!_ ” “I got tips that place was a drugs front and had to organize a raid! _Three times_ \- !” “-  Twelve Hells Setsuna!” “- Can we disown him?!” “For the Fire God’s Sake Setsuna!” “ - _Can we murder Setsuna?”_

 

Great Aunt Hisako sighs heavily, close enough to hear over the ruckus, “Setsuna, you are the most reliable of my grandchildren. You always, some how, some way, find some new, inconvenient, mortifying way to let me down, even in absentia.” Which perhaps says more about Setsuna than anyone ever needs to know without ever meeting the man, all things considered.

 

Madara waits for the order to be restored, but after a good few minutes of the level of rancor growing instead of decreasing, it becomes apparent someone mature needs to take things in hand. Especially since the number of people getting involved in a murder plot has grown to include Cousin Mikoto who has _allegedly_ never failed an assassination, though only because no one actually knows what her job is and she's always had a solid alibi. “No one is murdering Setsuna.” He gets a room full of unholy glowing red eyes in similar iterations of murderously skeptical, and amends, “Not until after we get the property from him.” This seems to appease the seething mass, and they settle back down.

 

From here on there’s nothing much for Madara to do - there are no complaints on the agenda, and no one needs to have him sign anything beyond the Clan reclaiming the property, but that has to be done at the courthouse anyways - so he can thankfully slip into a doze as Hikaku and Izuna handle the vote and close of the meeting.

 

* * *

 

 

_“Tobirama, there’s a summons for you.” Madara doesn’t pause in flipping through the mail. Bills, bills, oh, look, the coupon inserts for the week, a jury duty notice - they need to get police out of jury duty pools, it is always too much headache to watch lawyers fight over whether to include him or not - and a puzzling postcard from Kagami from the ocean side. “Isn’t Kagami supposed to be in Kaze no Kuni for research right now?”_

 

_Tobirama turns towards Madara - which sends an odd sort of thrill up his spine, that Madara is important to Tobirama and that Tobirama accepts Madara’s bids for connection and gives Madara his full attention, and Four Damn HR for forcing the Police Force personnel into taking Healthy Relationships 101 -  and takes the non sequitur, “Kagami, reportedly, was on the train that got hijacked in Kawa no Kuni. That he got a postcard out for captivity is probably something that ought to be reported to the police.” Madara pokes his head out the front door and hands it to his protection detail to handle._

 

_“And the summons?” Madara holds up the heavy envelope with its Senju vajra seal._

 

_“Throw it away.” The words are clear and cold, and it takes a moment for Madara to process them as a rational sentence._

 

_“But - it could be important. What if it’s a Clan vote?” Clans didn’t just send summons haphazardly. “Shouldn’t you at least read it?”_

 

_Tobirama doesn’t look up from where he’s typing at his laptop, shoulders squared but spine tight, “I doubt it very highly that anything in that letter can actually be classified in any way as ‘important correspondence’. It might actually be more important as kindling.”_

 

_The dismissal is conflicting, disconcerting, an unharmonious note played just out of rhythm and at conflict with what Madara knows of his boyfriend. Yet, Madara knows the Senju brothers too, and their wider, widely known absences from their Clan Meetings is evidence Madara cannot reconcile with their closeness. But._

 

_Madara makes a choice, and he hopes he doesn't come to regret it. “Aren’t you still Hashi’s presumed heir until Tsuna comes of age in the next three years?” Third in line for Clan Head isn’t a position without duties - Cousin Mikoto is positively inundated on any given day with things to look at or take care of - and it’s not duties that Hashi is likely to be able to cover on top of his own._

 

_Finely honed senses built over years of investigative work keep track of the steadily deepening lines between Tobirama's eyebrows, the hard strength of his fingers striking his keyboard as his usually well controlled temper caught. Madara starts to worry that he should have shredded the thrice damned letter and said fuck the consequences. But no, he's set his feet on this path and he'll see it through._

 

_Finally, Tobirama breaks, mouth thin with a poisonous unhappiness that bleeds, makes their apartment whimper and hunker down. “Nawaki is next in line, actually. Father has been quite clear on the fact that he will only accept male primogeniture as the rule of inheritance in his lifetime.”_

 

_Madara must make a horrified face - Tobirama’s mouth curls into something between a snarl and a smirk, and Madara regrets so intensely at the sheer feral hurt beneath the grim vindication in the baring of his teeth. Still, it’s instinct to drip a touch of flame to the letter when Tobirama hands it to him from the stack of mail addressed to Tobirama, to place it in the empty plate by his coffee, to accept that he’s stepped on a hidden mine in the landscape of Tobirama’s psyche._

 

_It had almost burnt completely to ash in the plate before Tobirama speaks again. “Father enjoys making his prodigious sons dance attendance on his whims. Clan Meetings are either one of two things - time where he can boast about whichever person he feels like, or time where he can lambast whomever has riled his ire without intervention like personal punching bags while everyone else sits quietly and prays we’re not next. Clan votes are farces on a similar dictatorial vein. Kawarama, Itama, and I have an agreement with Brother- only Brother attends and the rest of us get tongue lashed in absentia, which usually gets everyone else out of the line of fire as well.”_

 

_The implications of what’s been left unsaid are discombobulating, “Your Clan Meetings aren’t about making decisions as a Clan.” Fires Above and Below, that would explain why Hashi hated Senju Clan Meetings, came out blistering and worn and barely reigned in simmering temper that took hours to resolve. Four Above only know what it’s like on the other Senju._

 

_From the way Tobirama blinks back in shock, Madara’s own bafflement is puzzling. “Yours are?” The last embers on the porcelain wither to cold ash, and the silence is loud as Madara watches the invisible cogs turn in Tobirama’s brain. “Well, that certainly would explain why Father had all the Elders put into a home for supposed dementia. I’ll have to be sure to tell Brother - he wants to turn Clan Meetings into a hobby club gathering about bonsai.”_

 

* * *

 

There are times when Madara is glad for his best friend being who he is. Hashi cares, and nurtures, isn’t afraid to go where no man has dreamed to go before, yet ruthless in his own way. Then there are times like this, when Hashi is busy making friends with the overgrown plants and begging Madara to leave them alone, the poor _babies_ \- instead of convincing them to _not grow here_ , like Hashi is supposed to be doing -  taking over the plot and looking like something out of a horror film. _Tree Man_ or _When Plants Take Over_ or something equally classic black and white. Madara squints a bit harder - are those trees _on top_ of Hashi? After a moment, he shrugs - Mito wouldn’t care if Hashi asphyxiated from tree roots, especially if he did it to himself - and goes back to burning underbrush and leaf litter. There’s no point in accidentally pissing off the native flora for centuries just because he’s needs the land clear, especially when Hashi is on hand. Muttering muffled by wood rises from behind Madara, and he amends himself - Hashi is on hand for a given value of _on hand_. He silently apologizes to Mito and Konoha for whatever new flora specimens are going to wind up in Hashi’s “bonsai garden” behind Konoha.

 

Madara’s uncovered what looks like the remains of a cobblestone paved path - interesting, since there was no evidence anywhere that there ought to have been a path anywhere on this land - when his phone vibrates in his pocket. Hashi makes a muffled _mrrph?_ but Madara ignores it for the tightness in his chest at the contact icon on his screen. There’s no conscious decision to accept, his finger swiping the green call button without hesitation, “Well met Tobirama.”

 

There’s thrashing behind him, but it doesn’t particularly matter, not when there is Tobirama _right there_ close enough to hear and want and to miss with a fierceness and hurt that eclipses the pain of being shot, pulled apart by magic, and then rebuilt with shoddier magic. “Well met Madara. Is now a good time?” Madara bites back the entirely too revealing, too honest answer at the tip of his tongue in favor of murmuring assent into the receiver.  If that swallows the sound of Hashi thrashing in the background, then that’s only a plus.

 

Silence, and Madara can picture Tobirama wetting his lips in the space between them, uncertain and unsteady but trying to fit words into some semblance of coherence. Alarm spikes, setting his stomach in flames of worry and righteous rage, that something has cornered his Master boyfriend like this, the urge to burn and destroy and set to rights barely reigned in to hear what precisely is the matter.  It reverberates and grows like the ringing of a tuning fork pressed against bone, shaking and shattering and falling to pieces too heavy and paralyzing. “Do you remember the group who were defacing property?”

 

“Yes - teenagers was the running theory.” Petty crimes based on what Tobirama had mentioned, reasonable to assume based on locale and nature of the offenses. Nothing serious, to his recollection, nothing that sent alarm bells ringing beyond the fact Tobirama and Orochimaru seemed to be more vigilant as they experimented and tested and reviewed.

 

Tobirama clears his throat, and the sound does nothing for the hackles raising in the back of Madara’s mind, “There is evidence to suspect the criminals are not so mild as bored teens.”

 

Which means escalation, from graffiti and defacing to something bigger, and that in rural areas tends to mean the perpetrator is not a local. If he had been concerned before, now his blood is running cold. “Are you hurt?” His mind is spinning on a thousand _what ifs_ , possibilities hanging waiting in the ether to be voiced, his blood ice in his veins.

 

“Neither myself nor Orochimaru are injured, but whomever is behind the ... _incidents_ have taken a giant leap to terrorizing the populace. With neither rhyme nor reason being apparent.” A deep breath, and Madara aches to hear it, aches at the knowledge that that is Tobirama steeling himself.

 

The words fall out of him before he realizes, “Do you need me to go there? Four fuck what the military will say, you can Teleport here and get me.” Mentally he’s already making a to do list - he can hand off cleaning to Nawaki and Hashi and Izuna, and he has several months of unused vacation, what to pack - .

 

Quietly, Tobirama murmurs from all the way across Hi no Kuni and the distance has never felt so far away, “We’re not at Amaterasu levels, I don’t think.” A pause, heavy and charged, “There’s something strange about the series of events so far, though, something I can’t quite place. A certain vindictiveness and boldness that speaks to some measure of comfort with the area, but something _other_ as well.”

 

None of that is particularly reassuring in the least, but with a steadying breath Madara furiously stamps out the unease. Tobirama can handle himself, knows that he can ask for help if he needs it, will ask if he needs it as he has asked before. And knowing Tobirama, he will investigate first before deciding a course of action. “Be safe, whatever you do.” More words that ache to spill out too frank and exposing too much are quickly yanked back, closed up tight behind teeth and tongue and lips. “And don’t literally raise any of the twelve hells this time.”

 

And, oh that Madara can hear the slight intake of breath that means Tobirama understands what Madara is leaving unsaid. “I only Reanimated corpses _the one time_ ,” a grumbled hiss that Madara recognizes as fond, then slightly more sober, “I don’t plan on getting caught, but - .”

 

Getting caught being an option, the implication of that being a bad outcome, means that Tobirama expects things to get worse. Has evidence to suggest things will get worse. “If it comes to it, just get home alive Tobirama. The rest - ,” His core of fire flares, burns something like rage and fury and protection and possessive, and this is something Madara knows for sure Tobirama understands as the promise it is. Softer, too fragile to speak above a whisper, “Just, come home.”

 

Tobirama either doesn’t hear him over the commotion arising in the background on his end of the phone line, or gives Madara some dignity in the face of his break in composure. “We - _I’ll_ be careful, I promise.” Silence, as the disturbance gets louder, closer, until Tobirama must muffle the receiver to speak to whomever it is bellowing about. Madara closes his eyes against the swell of knowledge that Tobirama will need to go, resigned. Finally, after what feels like an indeterminate amount of time, but not enough either, Tobirama comes back on. “Madara -.”

 

“Go, take care of whatever needs to be taken care of. I’ll talk to you tonight?” He’s biting back disappointment hard enough to taste the bitter tang of blood, but it’s necessary. Madara won’t hold Tobirama back, force him to deal with the inconvenience of Madara’s sudden clinginess, covetousness, consuming desire to monopolize.

 

“The Mayor of this town just died in what at seems to be an accident,” An apology or an explanation, or both based on Tobirama’s tone, highly implying that “accident” as a cause is suspect. “I’ll call as soon as the police finish interviewing everyone.” Madara knows better than to think Tobirama hasn’t volunteered to help investigations, isn’t involved in figuring the crimes out and isn’t better than all the police on that force combined. “Merry met and merry part, Madara.” There’s something there, on the edge of Tobirama’s voice, something Madara doesn’t fully catch and can’t mark.

 

“Merry met and merry part, Tobirama. Talk to you soon.” The line goes dead. Even over the sound of Hashi flailing in terror nearby, the silence echoes ghastly ringing and empty.

 

* * *

 

_There’s a sea of uniforms in front of him, and Madara recognizes a few faces in the sea. It’s good that there’s more than the burnt charcoal black of Uchiha heads in here this year - an indeterminately affiliated redhead, several deep blondes, a veritable legion of brunettes and people with fair hair indeterminate of actual color under the lights. The department’s attempt to diversify is succeeding, albeit slowly. He smooths down the front of his double-breasted jacket, then offers his elbow to his date._

 

 _There had already been a tidal wave of flashing camera lights outside when they had arrived, a litany of questions they had both ignored, and Madara couldn’t help but be internally smug. Tobirama had cleaned up into a neat black tuxedo, hair slicked back out of his face, and causing at least seven people to stop in their tracks so far. Yes, his boyfriend on his arm is_ arresting _. Some part of his subconscious - the one that had long since been infected by Hashi, and sounded too much like him to bear thinking of too closely - giggled madly at the pun. The rest of Madara groans in despair -grew on him like a fungus indeed._

 

_Even then Madara could admit to himself that he is avoiding the nerves running rampant in his body - that every set of eyes was double taking at the sight of his date. The majority gawking were non-Clan, newspaper reporters and some smaller groups who were sent invites due to generous donations to the Department during the year. People who might have heard rumors and dismissed them as rumors rather than substantiated fact, only to find out otherwise. Fingers dig into his proffered and accepted forearm involuntarily, though nothing shows on the placid and serene mask Tobirama wears. Madara swallows down his own unease, wets his lips against speaking and walks in synch with Tobirama into the room._

 

 _A colleague at the mayor’s office stops them, and Madara takes the opportunity to introduce Tobirama, starts a flurry of greetings. The words to introductions are smooth on his tongue, practiced to hide the thrill and the nerves that underlie them every time he introduces Tobirama as_ his. _Though he catches glimpses of surprise, there are too many politicians, enough that are connecting the dots that yes, Tobirama is one of those Senju and Madara is one of those Uchiha and at least three people have excused themselves from the conversation to make panicked calls to mitigate potential political fallout.  Or make political fallout, depending._

 

_At least two others are trying to suck up to Tobirama, having placed that he’s Hashi’s brother and probably a million times more sensible. It’s a different sort of vindicative thrill, because he knows Tobirama noticed their toadying behavior too and is tripping them up on their own words. Madara can’t let Tobirama have all the fun, so he yanks their chains too. Not enough to cause true offense, but enough that they’re nodding to say no and alternating between swearing to the Four Above and cursing the Four Above in the same breath. Fire God’s flaming balls, he has to hide his laughs behind sipping at a whiskey on the rocks some dependable Cousin had brought over._

 

_It takes maneuvering, but Madara manages to duck the few society matrons circling the room as they go about glad handing the various officials and donors, at least until dinner. One of the more... shark-like ladies finds her seat at the dinner on the opposite side of Tobirama. Someone sold the seat to the highest bidder, apparently, since Madara had placed Mito there himself and she’s sitting to his right at present. A quick shared glance, and Madara starts praying for the Fire God to send a bolt of lightning to end them all before the shit show starts._

_“Professor Senju, well met! Are you standing in for your brother?” Her teeth flash and shine like the mother of pearl and diamond scale earrings shaking and shimmering in her ears, blood in the water and she’s waiting for the prey to come into view. Madara can't place her, but perhaps she's a distant Hoshigaki relation - Mito will know.  
_

 

_Tobirama politely stares her down, just a touch too long to be polite and her smile shrinks a touch, uncomfortable in the presence of a person who has no compunction about following the rules of society. “No, my sister-in-law, Lady Mito is representing the Senju Clan. Have you been introducedbefore?” Mito smiles back the same way the lady had, all teeth and barely concealed threat display, murmurs a quiet pleasantry that hears as only toeing the line of propriety._

 

_The woman keeps trying though, fishing for triumph in shark-filled waters. “Oh? Then are you a consultant for the police?” There are nervous glances around the table, the more skittish dinner companions trying to stare holes through the supplied menu and turn invisible at once._

 

_“No.” Tobirama ticks the boxes for the dishes he wants, then thanks the waitstaff waiting to take their order. Then after a moment, Tobirama must decide to quit dragging out the interrogation and gives the woman the information she wants, succinct and haughty at the same time,“As it happens, I am here as Commander Uchiha’s date.”_

 

_It’s not a confirmation the woman is expecting - that much is clear. Her eyes grow round, then she schools her face back to polite. Mito snickers behind her hand, and the woman flushes, caught out. “Ah, I suppose - I - that is certainly news.”  There’s no saving face however, as the others around the table - Clan Head Yamanaka among them, just taking his seat, Madara nods his greetings respectfully to the man who wrote the book on criminal profiling, a living legend as both a psychologist and an interrogator - eye her and note her face. By morning everyone will have heard the story, and it’ll blunt the revelation that Tobirama is here as Madara’s date._

 

_Madara doesn't remember much of the rest of the night - the fancy gourmet meal, the pretty speeches, the gentle strings quartet playing. PR had done an excellent job, though Madara hopes they won’t ask for a raise in the next annual budget, since budget increases aren’t expected to be coming. He notes that most eyes are on them together as they sway to a slow waltz with other couples on the floor, a flare of panic and them clamping it down to something less terror and more pride. A hard task, but Madara hasn’t seen Tobirama this relaxed since the start of the night, doesn’t want to cause an undue panic in the peace. Not when this itself is a panic in and of itself. His throat is dry, but, “Thank you.” A head tilts against his own, and oh, that Madara knows what this means. “For coming, here. With me, tonight.” The words he cannot say, tight at the back of his throat, remaining unspoken and bruising his breath with want. Idly, Madara notes Mito holding court with the other society ladies, cleverly forcing them to beg and scrape for the information they know she has. Viciously, he hopes Mito tells them nothing important while also answering their questions._

 

_So softly, that Madara also misses it, filling the silence between notes and the rough empty blankness of fear in Madara’s bones, “Thank you for asking me.”_

 

* * *

 

They are lucky that the compound - for proper clearing of underbrush and debris had revealed that there had once been buildings, an entire complex that had been lost to some ancient event no one had record of - only needed _maintenance_ and _construction_ to be habitable. The surveyor had declared that the land was remarkably flat for something that had been overgrown for so long, so teams were established to tackle getting the property ready. Aunt Mamiko and Great Uncle Daiki are in the middle of running a quasi-military operation for repairing the damaged compound wall, rebuilding with shaped stones to match the organic yet tightly fitted together extant portions. Tsunade is helping, crunching down stones into shape with her bare hands, as Dan cheerfully carries on smiling blithely and stacking the stones into place with smaller gravel pressed into place to fill the holes. Madara’s going to have to stop at least one relation of his from proposing.

 

Madara almost wished he could be there, in the line of the wall builders, rather than here at the ritual altar, listening to priests of the Four drone through the shlokas and prayers over the grounds to purify and bless the site, the invocations to call the Four and their domains to this place. There are a lot of chants to go through, and formal ceremonial wear is drafty in all the wrong places and exposes a fair amount of one’s body to the elements. Which would be fine, if the climate wasn’t being impacted by the magic of the shlokas in turns. Always a bit too hot, in a way that slowly builds to searing bare flesh, and humid, and gritty that gets everywhere in the whisper of wind that winds through the bodies assembled for praying.

 

He wishes Tobirama were here, as Madara winds the red string everyone has been holding onto into a ball around three fingers - the Clan and Hashi and Mrs. Senju representing his and Tobirama’s Clans, the small village of people he is connected to in the form of Mito and Shizaku Nara and the variety of friends and acquaintances of his and Tobirama’s that accepted invitations to attend the ceremony, the obligation invitees who came whose families have known his family of the Senju for centuries - their blessings and well wishes to be buried under the foundation under the central hearth to tether them all to a home here, warmth and wellness. Rice grains, flowers, and soil for plenty and earth, water for life and living fully, ashen charcoal for fire and warmth, fragrant cloud pine oil for air and togetherness daubed in to make a paste and bind it all together. The string is coated in the mix, and the priests chant some more, smearing the excess paste on the wells for the other frost footings.

 

Then comes the closing prayers, as thanks are given to the Four, holy oil cast about and the incense doused, and Madara moves to the prepared and waiting cement to fill the central frost foot that will rest under the hearth. Other attendees do the same, pouring and letting Tsunade shake the ground with the strength of her fists to prevent air pockets forming and setting. When enough cement has gone in to each hole, he drives in the petrified wood post that will support the center of their house, as the others do around him as well. Mito goes about clockwise to lay in anchoring crystals for the wards and seals, a large one in the center for the center of the matrix. In his mind's eye, Madara can imagine the house taking shape from these low beams, where fossilized wood that will be notched and fitted to form a grid and support the floors will rest. Where the posts that will make up the grid of the home proper above ground will go, how the engawa will mark out the perimeter, and how the guest houses and spare rooms will branch from there. One step closer, and yet so many to go, but all the lighter for it. All the warmer, loose and close in his heart and fueling the soft tenderness that his magic flutters, yearns. A breath in, a breath out and he turns towards where the rock hard wood is lying ready. There is work to be done, and there is no time like the present to do it.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Sarutahiko is the first of the Japanese Earth gods  
> \- Blackberries are associated with protection, dispelling afflictions, and healing. Madara is not subtle  
> \- It is highly implied Mrs. Senju has Parkinson's Disease. I am not a kind author  
> \- Lemon juice is purifying and cleansing ;Lemon flowers are used in love spells and the rind can be added to baked goods prepared with loving intent.  
> \- Lavender is used in purifcation purposes. It is also useful in sharpening the mind, as well as to encourage or strengthen pure love.  
> \- Aka, Mrs. Senju is also not subtle, but better than Kagami, and Kagami is getting lessons  
> \- What time with the lingerie :3c We just don't know  
> \- No Madara really didn't know; the Emotional Constipation is Strong with this One.  
> -Cinnamon can be burned to sanctify an area or object, to increase the spiritual "mood", to aid in healing spells or in healing in general. It also brings a warm, comfortable feeling to a space. Cinnamon and cinnamon oil can be used in love spells and to make charms to draw love, happiness, and money.  
> -Tajima is a literal actual ass too, we just don't precisely see it  
> - **when The fire nation attacked** I'm sorry I had to  
>  -I did in fact take the story and tradition associated with it from East Asian cultures  
> \- Shadow Puppets borrowed from Vietnam and/or China  
> \- Madara's wish: "For these sweet halcyon days to never end" - or, even back then Madara was gone on Tobirama and it shows.  
> -Mint is invigorating, restoring our ability to hope. Mint helps dry up excess emotions and is beneficial for use during the grieving process. Mint is also strongly connected to prosperity. St. Jude, patron saint of lost causes, has an affinity to mint. Mint energy can be helpful during karmic clearing ceremonies.  
> \- The eucalyptus is a holy tree for the Aboriginals. For them it represents the division of underworld, Earth and heaven. At a spiritual level the eucalyptus has a purifying effect. Negative energy disappears in the place where you burn a eucalyptus leaf.  
> \- turning towards in a healthy relationship - look it up!  
> \- There are a few sly references to YRMo(H)  
> -Tobirama is a emotionally constipated asshole who cannot use his words too, and really, what he wants to say is that he's happy to declare Madara his in front of everyone but hasn't had a chance until now, in public. It's been two years Madara, ffs.
> 
>  
> 
> Come scream with me on [ tumblr](http://modernart2012.tumblr.com)!

**Author's Note:**

> Playlist for this work:  
> [Bruised - Jack's Mannequin](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=71wVs8xvabY)  
> [Pluto - Sleeping at Last](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9KKnwu8neYY)  
> [Venus - Sleeping at Last](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PwMN8QtWCic)  
> [Play Crack the Sky - Brand New](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OyIX84ti7ao)  
> [the District Sleeps Alone Tonight - The Postal Service](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LW5t6vdoTNE)  
> [Two - Sleeping at Last](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=A2Mt6Obl3a0)  
> [Dark Side of Your Room - All Time Low](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VvEdtSoPjDI)  
> [First Day Of My Life - Bright Eyes](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ztGPYPArAyE)  
> [Five - Sleeping at Last](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6g82jWfYBcY)  
> [Sky full of Song - Florence and the Machine](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pk21n-Kh3LQ)  
> [Southern Air - Yellowcard](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Fbb50yYjQy4)  
> [Telescope - Yellowcard](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zQDGRByvasA)  
> [Dream Lantern - Randwimps](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yWsZHBzBxVI)  
> [Nandemonaiya - Radwimps](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jljeeuZobxI)


End file.
